you have no right to risk your life on treacherous
peaks and precipices."

The captain, Nat Lane, son of Senator Joseph
Lane, had been swearing in angry impatience for be-
ing compelled to make so late a start and thus en-
counter a dangerous wind in a narrow gorge, and was
threatening to put the missionaries ashore to seek
their lost companion, while he went on down the river
about his business. But when he heard my call for
help, he hastened forward, and elbowed the divines
away from the end of the gangplank, shouting in
angry irreverence, "Oh, blank! This is no time for
preaching! Don't you see the man is hurt?"

He ran down to our help, and while I steadied my
trembling companion from behind, the captain kindly
led him up the plank into the saloon, and made him
drink a large glass of brandy. Then, with a man hold-
ing down his shoulders, we succeeded in getting the
bone into its socket, notwithstanding the inflamma-
tion and contraction of the muscles and ligaments.
Mr. Young was then put to bed, and he slept all the
way back to Wrangell.

In his mission lectures in the East, Mr. Young
oftentimes told this story. I made no record of it in
my notebook and never intended to write a word
about it; but after a miserable, sensational caricature
of the story had appeared in a respectable magazine,
I thought it but fair to my brave companion that it
should be told just as it happened.

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