The Mystery on the Mississippi

Mart asked as they left the dining room. “Paul plays the guitar. He belongs to a trio down in New Orleans. They sing folk songs.”
    “Do you suppose he’ll sing some for us?” Honey asked. “Maybe out there in front, on top of a barge in the moonlight?”
    “Will he!” Mart cried happily. “We’ve got it all fixed up. We’re going to have our own songfest. Let’s get going as soon as you’re ready. We’ll wait for you girls here.”
    At the top of the stairs that led to their cabin, the girls ran into Mr. Aguilera. When he saw them, he hastily tried to throw out his arm to cover a tray of food he held. His face reddened as he tried to push past them.
    “I do hope no one is sick,” Trixie said quickly. “Is Mrs. Aguilera very tired? That dinner she cooked was so good. Did you have to take a tray to her?”
    “She’s all right. I’m in a hurry.” Mr. Aguilera pushed rudely past them.
    “Well, what do you think was biting him?” Trixie asked Honey. “It’s no crime to carry a tray to someone.”
    “Maybe something just upset him. Trixie, did you leave this door unlocked?”
    “I don’t think so. Especially since Captain Martin warned us to be sure and lock it. Is it unlocked?”
    “It is. No harm done, though, as far as I can see. As long as we have our purses with us everywhere we go, there isn’t much we could lose.”
    “It doesn’t seem possible that there could be a thief on board. You’d think anyone who ever got a job on a wonderful boat like the Catfish Princess would never take a chance on losing that job, wouldn’t you?”
    Trixie pulled a warm sweater out of the bag and handed it to Honey.
    “Yes, and I like every person that I’ve met on board. Captain Martin did warn us, though. So lock the door and hold on to your purse, Trixie. I have mine.”
    At the foot of the stairs, they met Paul, two other deckhands, and a young girl from the Ozarks named Deena, who waited on tables. Jim, Dan, Mart, and Brian were with them.
    Searchlights from the pilothouse threw a clear white beam along the tow as the young people went far ahead, to the deck of a lead barge. There they huddled in a semicircle while Paul tuned his guitar.
    Moonlight had changed the water to liquid silver. River lights, indicating each point and bend in the river, twinkled like fireflies in the bottomland. From time to time, small fish leaped out of the water in groups, flashed white in the searchlight, and disappeared. Opaque tongues of low-moving fog drifted about.
    It’s wonderful out here , Trixie thought. The stars! The mist! We could be in another country. I love to watch Paul tuning up his guitar and to hear the beat of the diesel engines. Deena’s pretty. She reminds me of Linnie at Uncle Andrew ’s lodge in the Ozarks. I should think she’d get lonesome out here , never seeing other girls her own age. The other maids seem a lot older than Deena and aren’t as friendly.
    The whistle on a passing boat moaned mournfully. Trixie shivered. Fog... mist... that whistle.... It’s eerie, she thought.
    “Where’s your mind been?” Jim whispered. “This is the second time I’ve asked you that, and you haven’t answered. You’ve been miles away. Boy, can Paul coax harmony out of that guitar!” He paused. “You can’t beat this, Trixie—miles from nowhere, drifting down the river in the moonlight!”
    Trixie loved it, too, and her clear voice rose as Paul led the singing.

“I’m a wandering towboat man
And far away from home.
I fell in love with a pretty little girl,
And now I no more roam.

“Through wind and rain and fog and snow
And dangers that she’ll never know,
I’ll walk the barges, tote the chains,
And watch the shoreline creeping by,
For I love my girl, my pretty little girl,
And I’ll love her till I die.”

    Paul tapped his guitar and changed the tempo. “It’s a thousand times more fun to play when someone sings along. Do you know this one?” he said as he strummed a few bars.
    “Do we?” Dan said enthusiastically. They all sang:

“Down in the churchyard,
All covered with snow,
My true love’s a-lying;
Hang your head low.

“Mourn for my true love,
Under the snow.
Mourn for my sweet love;
Hang your head low.”

    When they had finished with the words, they hummed the chorus dreamily. Paul rested his guitar on his knees. “I haven’t heard harmony like that in many a day. Don’t you know any songs from your part of the country?”
    “Sure,” Mart answered. “If you