“Oh, no, some was left.”
“And we sailed away, leaving there, no doubt, the full story of our voyage.”
“Like enough,” said L’Olonnois. “I didn’t think of that.”
“Nor I. For once, the vigilance of Black Bart faltered, L’Olonnois, and he must yet, mayhap, make better amends for his fault. Full speed ahead, now, Peterson,” I added later as I went forward. “Run for New Orleans and with all you can get out of her.”
“Very good, Mr. Harry,” said the old man; and I could feel the throb of her whole superstructure, from stack to keelson, when he called on the double-sixties of the Belle Helène for all their power. Nor did any seek to stay us in our swift rush down the river.
CHAPTER XXII
IN WHICH I WALK AND TALK WITH HELENA
IT was nine of as fine a winter morning as the South ever saw when at last, having passed without pause all intervening ports, we found ourselves at the city of New Orleans. Rather, in the vicinity of that city; for when we reached the railway ferry above the town, I ran alongshore and we made fast the Belle Helène at a somewhat precarious landing place. I now called Peterson to me.