“Yes,” said L’Olonnois brightly, “you might blow in once in a while an’ see us fellers. I told Black Bart that captives——” but here I kicked Jimmy under the table. Poor chap, what with his Auntie Helena’s hand at one extremity and my boot at the other, he was strained in his conversation, and in disgust, joined Jean Lafitte in complete silence and oysters.
“Really,” and Helena raised her eyes, “isn’t it growing colder?”
“Jean, close the port behind Miss Emory,” said I. It was plain enough to my mind that a blue norther was breaking, with its swift drop in temperature and its possibly high wind.
“The table’s actin’ funny,” commented Jean Lafitte presently. He had never been at sea before.
“Yes,” said Aunt Lucinda, with very much—too much—dignity. “If you all will please excuse me, I think I shall go back to the cabin. Helena!”
“Go with Mrs. Daniver at once, Jimmy,” said I to L’Olonnois.
“Aye, aye, Sir!” saluted he joyously; and added aside as he passed me, “Hope the old girl’s going to be good an’ sick!”
I could see Peterson standing near the saloon’s door, and bethought me to send Jean Lafitte up to aid him in making all shipshape. We were beginning to roll; and I missed the smooth thrust of both our propellors, although now the engines were purring smoothly enough. Thus by mere chance, I found myself alone with Helena. I put out a hand to steady her as she rose.
“Is it really going to be bad?” she inquired anxiously. “Auntie gets so sick.”
“It will be rough, for three hours yet,” I admitted. “She’s not so big as the Mauretania, but as well built for her tonnage. You couldn’t pound her apart, no matter what came—she’s oak and cedar, through and through, and every point——”