"And what might your name be?" he asked softly.
"What d'yuh think it is? Hitler? I'm Ralestone, the owner of this place. On your way, kid, on your way."
"So? Well, good morning, cousin." Val tightened rein.
The invader eyed him cautiously. "What d'yuh mean—cousin?"
"I happen to be a Ralestone also," the boy answered grimly.
"Huh? You the guy who thinks he owns this?" he asked aggressively.
"My brother is the present master of Pirate's Haven—"
"That's what he thinks," replied the rival with a relish. "Well, he isn't. That is, not until he pays me for my half. And if he wants to get tough, I'll take it all," he ended, and withdrew into the car like a lizard into its rock den.
Val sat by the side of the road and watched the car slide along toward the plantation. As it passed him he caught a glimpse of a second passenger in the back seat. It was the red-faced man he had seen with LeFleur's clerk on the street in New Orleans. Resolutely Val turned back and started for the house in the wake of the rival.
By making use of a short-cut, he reached the front of the house almost as soon as the car. Ricky had been working with the morning-glory vines about the terrace steps, young Sam standing attendance with a rusty trowel and one of the kitchen forks.