“No, he can’t. I asked him this morning.”
“Then ’twould seem we must lie here all winter, unless discovered by some relief expedition.”
“Why don’t we start a relief expedition of our own?” demanded he.
“And how?”
“Why, me and Willy, the deck-hand, we’ll take the long boat an’ go out an’ explore this region roundabout. Somebody may have gasoline somewhere, and if so, we can git it, can’t we?”
“Your idea is excellent, Jean Lafitte,” said I. “Within the hour you shall set forth to see whether or not there is any settlement on this bayou. And that you may not need use violence when secrecy is our wish, here is a fat purse for our stores. And hasten, for of a truth, Jean Lafitte, I am most aweary of this very morning, and I long to see the white seas roll once more.”
It was determined, therefore, that we should fare onward—in case we could fare at all—with our ship’s company as it now was; for, of course, none but myself knew what was afoot between Black Bart and his captive. And well enough I knew that in keeping Helena Emory thus close to me, I was breeding sleepless nights and anxious days.
This day itself was anxious enough, nor could all of Epictetus teach me calm philosophy, distracted as I was over this situation, complex as it was. As to the fortune of the long boat, we knew nothing until, at three of the afternoon, I saw a white speck of a sail round the bend of our bayou, and saw that was hoisted, spirit fashion, over our boat, which now, with following wind, rapidly drew in toward us.
“It’s all right,” called out Jean Lafitte, when he came within hail; and I saw now that he, indeed, had a boat’s load of gasoline in tanks, cans and all manner of receptacles.
“Town and a store, down there five miles,” he explained as I caught his gunwale with boat hook. “You can git anything there. Now, the Giants an’ the Cubs, why, they tied in the ’leventh inning yesterday. An’ say——”