"Then I 've got to go to work and learn just as much more river as I already know."
"Just about twice as much more, as near as you can come at it."
"Well, one lives to find out. I think I was a fool when I went into this business."
"Yes, that is true. And you are yet. But you 'll not be when you 've learned it."
"Ah, I never can learn it."
"I will see that you do."
By and by I ventured again:—
"Have I got to learn all this thing just as I know the rest of the river—shapes and all—and so I can run it at night?"
"Yes. And you 've got to have good fair marks from one end of the river to the other, that will help the bank tell you when there is water enough in each of these countless places,—like that stump, you know. When the river first begins to rise, you can run half a dozen of the deepest of them; when it rises a foot more you can run another dozen; the next foot will add a couple of dozen, and so on: so you see you have to know your banks and marks to a dead moral certainty, and never get them mixed; for when you start through one of those cracks, there 's no backing out again, as there in the big river; you 've got to go through, or stay there six months if you get caught on a falling river. There are about fifty of these cracks which you can't run at all except when the river is brim full and over the banks."
"This new lesson is a cheerful prospect."
"Cheerful enough. And mind what I 've just told you; when you start into one of those places you 've got to go through. They are too narrow to turn around in, too crooked to back out of, and the shoal water is always up at the head; never elsewhere. And the head of them is always likely to be filling up, little by little, so that the marks you reckon their depth by, this season, may not answer for next."
