“It’s a fine morning, Peterson,” said I.
“Yes, sir, but I think ’tis going to rain.” (Peterson was always gloomy.)
“You must go down-town, Peterson,” said I. “The through train from the West is late and just now is coming into the ferry. You can take it easily. We have got to have still more gasoline, for there is a long trip ahead of us, and I am not sure what may be the chance for supplies below the city.”
“Are you going into the Gulf, Mr. Harry?”
“Yes, Peterson. You will continue to navigate the boat; and, meantime, you may be quartermaster also. I shall be obliged to remain here until you return.”
The old man touched his cap. “Very good, sir, but I’m almost sure not to return.”
“Listen, Peterson,” I went on, well used to his customary depression of soul, “go to the ship’s furnisher, Lavallier and Thibodeau, toward the Old Market. Tell them to have all our supplies at slip K, below the railway warehouses, not later than nine this evening. We want four drums of gasoline. Also, get two thousand rounds of ammunition for the twelve gages, ducking loads, for we may want to do some shooting. We also want two or three cases of grapefruit and oranges, and any good fresh vegetables in market. All these things must be ready on the levee at nine, without fail. Here is my letter of credit, and a bank draft, signed against it—I think you will find they know me still.”
The old man touched his cap again but hesitated. “I’m sure to be asked something,” he said somewhat nervously.
“Say nothing about any change of ownership of this boat, Peterson, and don’t even give the boat’s name, unless you must. Just say we will meet their shipping clerk at slip K, this evening, at nine. Hurry back, Peterson. And bring a newspaper, please.”
“Is any one else going down-town?” asked Peterson. “I may run into trouble.”