"Some are Cajuns, descendants of exiles from Evangeline's country; some are Creoles who took to that way of life after the Civil War ruined them. There's many a barefooted boy or girl of the swamps who bears a name that was once honored at the Court of France or Spain. And there are Americans of the old frontier stock who came down river with Andrew Jackson's army from the wilds of Tennessee and the Indian country. It's a strange mixture, and once in a while you find a person like Jeems. He speaks the uneducated jargon of his people but he reads and writes French and English perfectly. He has studied under Père Armand until he has a classical education such as was popular for Creole boys of good family some fifty years ago. Père Armand is an old man now, but he is as good an instructor as he is a priest.
"Jeems wants to make something of himself. He argues logically that the swamp has undeveloped resources which might save its inhabitants from the grinding poverty which is slowly destroying them. And it is Jeems' hope that he can discover some of the swamp secrets when he is fitted by training to do so."
"Who is he?" Val asked. "Is Jeems his first or last name?"
"His last. I have never heard his given name. He is very reticent about his past, though I do know that he is an orphan. But he is of Creole descent and he does have breeding as well as ambition. Unfortunately he had quite an unpleasant experience with a boy who was visiting the Harrisons last summer. The visitor accused Jeems of taking a fine rifle which was later discovered right where the boy had left it in his own canoe. Jeems has a certain pride and he was turned against all the plantation people. His attitude is unfortunate because he longs so for a different sort of life and yet has no contact with young people except those of the swamp. I think he is beginning to trust me, for he will come in the mornings to pose for my picture of the swamp hunter. Do you know," she hesitated, "I think that you would find a real friend in Jeems if you could overcome his hatred of plantation people. You would gain as much as he from such an association. He can tell you things about the swamp—stories which go back to the old pirate days. Perhaps—"
Ricky looked up from the uncompleted picture. "I think he'd be nice to know. But why does he look so—so sort of starved?"
"Probably because the bill of fare in a swamp cabin is not as varied as it might be," answered Charity Biglow. "But you can't offer him anything, of course. I don't even know where he lives. And now, tell me about yourselves. Are you planning to live here?"
Her frank interest seemed perfectly natural. One simply couldn't resent Charity Biglow.
"Well," Ricky laughed ruefully, "we can't very well live anywhere else. I think Rupert still has ten dollars—"
"After his expedition this morning, I would have my doubts of that," Val cut in. "You see, Miss Biglow, we are back to the soil now."
"Charity is the name," she corrected him. "So you're down—"