Part 54 (2/2)

Now that they were out, he forgot for a moment the self-amusing plaint of conjugal separation to flaunt his triumph. Would any one hereafter dispute with him on the subject of Louisiana sea-coast navigation? He knew every pa.s.s and piece of water like A, B, C, and could tell, faster, much faster than he could repeat the multiplication table (upon which he was a little slow and doubtful), the amount of water in each at ebb tide--Pa.s.s Jean or Pet.i.t Pa.s.s, Unknown Pa.s.s, Pet.i.t Rigolet, Chef Menteur,--

Out on the far southern horizon, in the Gulf--the Gulf of Mexico--there appears a speck of white. It is known to those on board the _Pique-en-terre_, the moment it is descried, as the canvas of a large schooner. The opinion, first expressed by the youthful husband, who still reclines with the tiller held firmly under his arm, and then by another member of the company who sits on the centreboard-well, is unanimously adopted, that she is making for the Rigolets, will pa.s.s Pet.i.tes Coquilles by eleven o'clock, and will tie up at the little port of St. Jean, on the bayou of the same name, before sundown, if the wind holds anywise as it is.

On the other hand, the master of the distant schooner shuts his gla.s.s, and says to the single pa.s.senger whom he has aboard that the little sail just visible toward the Rigolets is a sloop with a half-deck, well filled with men, in all probability a pleasure party bound to the Chandeleurs on a fis.h.i.+ng and gunning excursion, and pa.s.ses into comments on the superior skill of landsmen over seamen in the handling of small sailing craft.

By and by the two vessels near each other. They approach within hailing distance, and are announcing each to each their ident.i.ty, when the young man at the tiller jerks himself to a squatting posture, and, from under a broad-brimmed and slouched straw hat, cries to the schooner's one pa.s.senger:

”h.e.l.lo, Challie Keene.”

And the pa.s.senger more quietly answers back:

”h.e.l.lo, Raoul, is that you?”

M. Innerarity replied, with a profane parenthesis, that it was he.

”You kin hask Sylvestre!” he concluded.

The doctor's eye pa.s.sed around a semicircle of some eight men, the most of whom were quite young, but one or two of whom were gray, sitting with their arms thrown out upon the wash-board, in the dark neglige of amateur fishermen and with that exultant look of expectant deviltry in their handsome faces which characterizes the Creole with his collar off.

The mettlesome little doctor felt the odds against him in the exchange of greetings.

”Ola, Dawctah!”

”_He_, Doctah, _que-ce qui t'apres fe?_”

”_Ho, ho, compere Noyo!_”

”_Comment va_, Docta?”

A light peppering of profanity accompanied each salute.

The doctor put on defensively a smile of superiority to the juniors and of courtesy to the others, and responsively spoke their names:

”'Polyte--Sylvestre--Achille--emile--ah! Agamemnon.”

The Doctor and Agamemnon raised their hats.

As Agamemnon was about to speak, a general expostulatory outcry drowned his voice. The _Pique-en-terre_ was going about close abreast of the schooner, and angry questions and orders were flying at Raoul's head like a volley of eggs.

”Messieurs,” said Raoul, partially rising but still stooping over the tiller, and taking his hat off his bright curls with mock courtesy, ”I am going back to New Orleans. I would not give _that_ for all the fish in the sea; I want to see my wife. I am going back to New Orleans to see my wife--and to congratulate the city upon your absence.” Incredulity, expostulation, reproach, taunt, malediction--he smiled unmoved upon them all.

”Messieurs, I _must_ go and see my wife.”

Amid redoubled outcries he gave the helm to Camille Brahmin, and fighting his way with his pretty feet against half-real efforts to throw him overboard, clambered forward to the mast, whence a moment later, with the help of the schooner-master's hand, he reached the deck of the larger vessel. The _Pique-en-terre_ turned, and with a little flutter spread her smooth wing and skimmed away.

”Doctah Keene, look yeh!” M. Innerarity held up a hand whose third finger wore the conventional ring of the Creole bridegroom. ”W'at you got to say to dat?”

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