"That's right," approved Welton, "take it easy. Necessities is a great
comfort, but you can do without even them."

After supper all sprawled around a fire. Welton's big bulk extended in
the acme of comfort. He puffed his pipe straight up toward the stars,
and swore gently from time to time when the ashes dropped back into his
eyes.

"Now that's a good kid," he said, waving a pipe toward the other fire
where the would-be riverman was helping wash the dishes. "He'll never
be a first-class riverman, but he's a good kid."

"Why won't he make a good riverman?" asked Bob.

"Same reason you wouldn't," said Welton bluntly. "A good white water man
has to start younger. Besides, what's the use? There won't be any
rivermen ten year from now. Say, you," he raised his voice peremptorily,
"what do you call yourself?"

The boy looked up startled, saw that he was indicated, stammered, and
caught his voice.

"John Harvey, sir," he replied.

"Son of old John who used to be on the Marquette back in the seventies?"

"Yes, sir; I suppose so."

"He ought to be a good kid: he comes of good stock," muttered Welton;