"Delightful! The passing steamers no doubt thought you a dissipated lot of northern joy-riders, bound south on some rich man's yacht."
"Instead of two troubled women on a stolen boat."
"Are you engaged to Cal Davidson, Helena?"
"What earthly difference?"
"True, none at all. As you say, I have stolen his boat, stolen his wine, stolen his fried potatoes, stolen his waistcoats. But, bear witness, I drew the line at his neckties. Nowhere else, however!" And as I added this I looked at her narrowly.
"Will you put us ashore?" she asked, her color rising.
"No."
"We're coming to a town."
"Baton Rouge. The capital of Louisiana. A quaint and delightful city of some sixty thousand inhabitants. The surrounding country is largely devoted to the sugar industry. But we do not stop. Tell me, are you engaged?"
But, suddenly, I saw her face, and on it was something of outraged dignity. I bent toward her eagerly. "Forgive me! I never wanted to give you pain, Helena. Forget my improper question."
"Indeed!"
"I've been fair with you. And that's hard for a man. Always, always,--let me tell you something women don't understand--there's the fight in a man's soul to be both a gentleman and a brute, because a woman won't love him till he's a brute, and he hates himself when he isn't a gentleman. It's hard, sometimes, to be both. But I tried. I've been a gentleman--was once, at least. I told you the truth. When they investigated my father, and found that, acting under the standard of his day, he hadn't run plumb with the standards of to-day, I came and told you of it. I released you then, although you never had promised me, because I knew you mightn't want an alliance with--well, with a front page family, you know. It blew over, yes; but I was fair with you. You knew I had lost my money, and then you----"
"I remained 'released'."
"Yes, it is true."
"And am free, have been, to do as I liked."
"Yes, true."
"And what earthly right has a man to try both roles with a woman--that of discarded and accepted? You chose the first; and I never gave you the last. It is horrible, this sort of talk. It is abominable. For three years we have not met or spoken. I've not had a heartache since I told you. Don't give me a headache now. And it would make my head ache, to follow these crazy notions. Put us ashore!"
"Not till I know the truth," said I.
"About what?"
"Well, for instance, about the waistcoat with pink stripes."
"You are silly."
"Yes. How do you like my suit?"
"I never saw Mr. Davidson wear that one," said she.
"For good reasons. It is my own, and four years old. You see, a poor man has to economize. And you know, since I lost my fortune, I've been living almost from hand to mouth. Honestly, Helena, many is the time when I've gone out fishing, trying to catch me a fish for my supper!"
"So does a poor girl have to economize," said she.
"You are most sparing of the truth this morning, Helena, my dear," I said.
"How dare you!" she blazed now at the tender phrase. "Fine, isn't it, when I can't get away? If I could, I'd go where I'd never see or hear of you again. I thought I had."
"But you have not. You shall hear and see me daily till I know from your own lips the truth about you and--and every and any other man on earth who--well, who wears waistcoats with pink stripes."
"We'll have a long ride then," said she calmly, and rose.
I rose also and bowed.
CHAPTER XVII
IN WHICH IS HUE AND CRY
We ran by the river-front of Baton Rouge, and lay to on the opposite side while our dingey ran in with mail. I sent Peterson and Lafitte ashore for the purpose, and meantime paced the deck in several frames of mind. I was arrested in this at length by L'Olonnois, who was standing forward, glasses in hand.
"Here they come," said he, "and a humpin' it up, too. Look, Jean Lafitte is standin' up, wavin' at us. Something's up, sure. Mayhap, we are pursued by the enemy. Methinks 'tis hue and cry, good Sir."
"It jolly well does look like it, mate," said I, taking his glasses.
"Something's up."
I could see the stubby dingey forced half out the water by Peterson's oars, though she made little speed enough. And I saw men hurrying on the wharf, as though about to put out a boat.
"What's wrong, Peterson?" I shouted as he came in range at last.
"Hurry up!" It was Lafitte who answered. "Clear the decks for action.
Yon varlet has wired on ahead to have us stopped! They're after us!"
So came his call through cupped hands.
I ran to the falls and lowered away the blocks to hoist them aboard, even as I ordered speed and began to break out the anchor. We hardly were under way before a small power boat, bearing a bluecoated man, puffed alongside.
"What boat is this?" he called. "_Belle Helene_, of Mackinaw?"
In answer--without order from me,--my bloodthirsty mate, L'Olonnois, brought out the black burgee of the Jolly Rover, bearing a skull and cross-bones. "Have a look at that!" he piped. "Shall we clear the stern-chaser, Black Bart?"
"Hold on there, wait! I've got papers for you," called the officer, still hanging at our rail, for I had not yet ordered full speed.
"He hollered to me he was going to arrest us, Mr. Harry," explained Peterson, much out of breath. "What's it all about? What papers does he mean?"
"The morning papers, very likely, Peterson," said I. "The baseball scores."
"Will you halt, now?" called the officer.
"No," I answered, through the megaphone. "You have no authority to halt us. What's your paper, and who is it for?"
"Wire from Calvin Davidson, Natchez, charging John Doe with running off with his boat."