Any sleep was too much—any rest of the eyes was too much—anything that for a moment interrupted his gaily intoxicated senses was a murderer of opportunity! The river swept him down bend and reach, and he knew that it was taking him far and away and beyond any of those poor devils who were struggling and plugging and stumbling through the prosiness of back yonder.
One touch had awakened his soul, one kiss had elevated him to heights of which he had dreamed, toward which he had struggled in vain through jungle fastnesses—now he breathed deep with satisfaction. His mind dwelt upon the sheer beauty of mighty torrent, and a skyline that did not imprison the soul struggling against the bars of limitation and crowds and haste and efficiency.
Just so Murdong found himself a part of the atmosphere of Old Mississip'. He felt as much a river man as any old-timer ever felt. He had been away; he had wandered in far places; but now he had returned to his true home.
He was still leaning on the sweeps when dawn darted like a flash of lightning out of the east. He saw the magnificent sunrise up-pouring of light. He caught the chirrups of migrant birds, and he saw wild geese planing down out of the high sky, having travelled a thousand miles since sunset the night before. By that
