That night we stopped for an hour at Fort Mackinaw.
Next morning—Sunday morning—we found ourselves in Lake Huron. Another beautiful day passed away in perfect harmony and happiness on board the _St. Louis_, and another night came. All this time the propeller glided along so smoothly that one could scarcely believe, at times, that she moved at all, till he should go out, look over the side, and see the green waters rushing by, and the waves receding from the prow on either side. I never slept anywhere more tranquilly than on board the _St. Louis_.
Next morning, we found ourselves in the St. Clair river, which runs north and south, and connects Lake Huron with Lake St. Clair. On its eastern shore is Canada, and on its western the State of Michigan.
About nine o’clock, we landed at the town of Newport, Michigan, the home of the captain. Being assured by him that she would lie there several hours, another passenger and myself went ashore and walked up into the town, with the view of hunting a billiard-table and playing a game or two. Some others also went ashore for a stroll.
We found one, and played one game. I do not remember who won it. What happened shortly after was calculated to rub out trifles from one’s memory.
“Now,” said I, when we had finished the game, “we had better go. Something tells me we will not have time to play another.”
“O, pshaw!” replied my companion. “Didn’t the captain tell us the boat would lie here several hours?”
“True, but I cannot help feeling uneasy.”
We commenced another game, and had each made fifteen or twenty points, when another fit of uneasiness seized me.
“Come,” said I, “something tells me the boat is ready to leave; I’ll give you this game. Let us go.”
“O, there’s no danger of the boat’s going,” he replied. “It will whistle first, anyhow.”
We played about seven minutes longer, when a boy came in.
“Bub,” said I, “is the _St. Louis_ lying at the landing yet?”
“Why,” he replied, “did you ’uns intend to go on her?”
“Yonder she goes!” he said, coolly, as he pointed out the window looking down the river.
Yes, the _St. Louis_ had gone, and was just disappearing round a bend nearly half a mile distant.
If the reader wants to know what pure, unalloyed anguish is, I can tell him that I experienced it on this occasion. There I was, fifty miles from my destination, and the propeller, on which I had spent several such happy days, gliding away and disappearing from my gaze, bearing from me the many good friends I had made among the passengers, whom I should now never, probably, see again, depriving me of the melancholy pleasure of bidding them good-by, and also of taking the address of a handsome young lady I fell in love with—to say nothing of my trunk, and some other articles I prized highly, scattered about in my state-room.