"Water there!" said Peterson. "We can go on through, come around in

the Morrison cut-off, and so make the end of the Manning channel to

the mainland. But I wish we had a local pilot."

I nodded. "Drop her in alongside this fellow's wharf," I added. "The

ladies have sent some letters--to go out by the tender's boat,

yonder--I suppose he'll be going back to-day."

"Like enough," said Peterson; and so gently we moved on up the dredged

channel, and at last made fast at the tumble-down wharf of the

lighthouse; courteously waiting for the little craft of the tender to

make its landing.

We found the mooring none too good, what with the storm's work at the

wharf, and as we shifted our lines a time or two, the gaping,

jeans-clad Cajun who had come in with mail and supplies passed in to

the lighthouse ahead of us; and I wonder his head did not twist quite

off its neck, for though he walked forward, he ever looked behind him.

When at length we two, Peterson and myself, passed up the rickety walk

to the equally rickety gallery at the foot of the light, we found two

very badly frightened men instead of a single curious one. The keeper

in sooth had in hand a muzzle-loading shotgun of such extreme age,

connected with such extreme length of barrel, as might have led one to

suspect it had grown an inch or so annually for all of many decades.

He was too much frightened to make active resistance, however, and

only warned us away, himself, now, a pale saffron in color.

"Keep hout!" he commanded. "No, you'll didn't!"

"We'll didn't what, my friend?" began I mildly. "Don't you like my

looks? Not that I blame you if you do not. But has the boat brought

down any milk or eggs that you can spare?"

"No milluk--no haig!" muttered the light tender; and they would have

closed the door.

"Come, come now, my friends!" I rejoined testily. "Suppose you

haven't, you can at least be civil. I want to talk with you a minute.

This is the power yacht Belle Helène, of Mackinaw, cruising on the

Gulf. We went aground in the storm; and all we want now is to send out

a little mail by you to Morgan City, or wherever you go; and to pass

the time of day with you, as friends should. What's wrong--do you

think us a government revenue boat, and are you smuggling stuff from

Cuba through the light here?"

"We no make hany smug'," replied the keeper. "But we know you, who you

been!"

He smote now upon an open newspaper, whose wrapper still lay on the

floor. I glanced, and this time I saw a half-page cut of the Belle

Helène herself, together with portraits of myself, Mrs. Daniver, Miss

Emory and two wholly imaginary and fearsome boys who very likely were

made up from newspaper portraits of the James Brothers! Moreover, my

hasty glance caught sight of a line in large letters, reading: TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS REWARD!




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