THE REMINISCENCES OF CARL SCHURZ
It so happened that another boat of different ownership, but of about the same size, started at the same time down the river. Let us call her the “Ocean Wave.” It was one of those bright, sunny, autumn mornings, which, in the Northwest, are peculiarly beautiful—an atmosphere so delightfully strong as to fill one with a sense of jubilation. It was my first journey on one of those great steamboats and I enjoyed it beyond measure. When we passed the majestic bluffs of Lake Pepin, the “Ocean Wave” seemed to be gaining on our “Flying Cloud” and my fellow-passengers began to yield forthwith to an irrepressible feeling that this must not be. At first this feeling seemed to be confined to the men, but soon the women, too, began to show an interest in the matter that constantly grew more lively. They crowded around the captain, a short, broad-shouldered, and somewhat grumpy-looking man, who paced the “hurricane-deck” with an air of indifference. Would he permit the “Ocean Wave” to get ahead? he was asked. “Would you like to be blown up?” he asked in return. “No,” was the answer, “we would not like to be blown up, but we don't want the ‘Ocean Wave’ to beat us, either.” The captain looked up with a grim smile, said nothing, and walked away.
After a while the thumping of the engine grew louder, the guttural, raucous breathing of the smokestacks heavier and more feverish, the clouds of smoke rolling up from them blacker and more impetuous, and the quiver of the big vessel, as it rushed through the water, more shuddering. At the same time we noticed that the “Ocean Wave,” which was almost abreast of us, showed the same symptoms of extraordinary commotion. She even seemed to have anticipated us somewhat in her preparations for the contest and forged ahead most vigorously. Indeed, a cheer went up from her decks, her passengers
evidently thinking that the “Ocean Wave” would soon leave
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