The Lady and the Pirate

Cal Davidson's taste in neckwear was a trifle vivid as compared with

my own, yet I rather liked his shirts, and I found a morning waistcoat

of his which I could classify as possible; beside which I obtained

from John the cook a suit of flannels I had given him four years ago,

and which he was saving against the day of his funeral and shipment

back to China. So that, on the whole, I did rather well, and I was not

ill content with life as I sat, with the Pirate's Own Book in my

lap, and Partial's head on my knee, looking out over the passing

panorama of the river. The banks now were low, the swamps, at times,

showing their fan-topped cypresses close to where we passed; and all

the live oaks carried their funereal Spanish moss, gray and ghostlike.

We sometimes passed river craft, going up or down, nondescript, dingy

and slow, for the most part. Sometimes we were hailed gaily by

monkey-like deck-hands, sometimes saluted by the pilot of a larger

boat. At times we swept by busy plantation landings where the levees

screened the white-pillared mansion houses so that we could only see

the upper galleries. And now at these landings, we began to see the

freight, made up as much of barrels as of bales. We were passing from

cotton to cane. But though it still was early in the fall, the weather

was not oppressive, and the breeze on the deck was cool. I had very

much enjoyed my breakfast, and so had my shipmates L'Olonnois and

Lafitte, to whom each moment now was a taste of paradise revealed. I

envied them, for theirs, now, was that rare, fleeting and most

delectable of all human states, the full realization of every

cherished earthly dream. It made me quite happy that they were thus

happy; and as to the right or wrong of it, I put that all aside for

later explanation to them.

I looked up to see Peterson, who touched his cap.

"Yes, Peterson?"

"We're on our last drum of gasoline, Mr. Harry," said he. "Where'll we

put in--Baton Rouge?"

"No, we can't do that, Peterson," I answered. "Can't we make it to New

Orleans?"

"Hardly. But they carry gas at most of these landings now--so many

power boats and autos nowadays, you see."

"Very well. We'll pass Bayou Sara and Baton Rouge, and then you can

run in at any landing you like, say twenty miles or so below. Can you

make it that far?"

"Oh, yes, but you see, at Baton Rouge----"

"You may lay to long enough to mail these letters," said I, frowning;

"but the custom of getting the baseball scores is now suspended. And

send John here."

The old man touched his cap again, a trifle puzzled. I wondered if he

recognized Davidson's waistcoat--he asked no more questions.