“Litlee boy he give me; him ’Melican book. I lead him some. Plenty good book.”
“Yes,” said I; “I see. That boy’ll make pirates of us all, if we aren’t careful.”
“That book, him tellee what do, sposee bad storm,” said John proudly. “I know.”
I walked over to where Peterson lay, his pipe now lighted by some magic all his own. We now could see more plainly the furred and yellow gleam of the lighthouse lamp. Peterson’s concern, however, was all for the Belle Helène.
“I hate to think of her out there all by herself,” said he.
“So do I, Peterson. I hate also to think of all that ninety-three we left out there.”
We were standing near the edge of the ladies’ shelter, and I heard Mrs. Daniver’s voice as she put out her head at the edge of the tarpaulin.
“I thought you said all the ninety-three was gone,” said she with some interest, as it appeared to me.
“No, we only had the last bottle of that case at luncheon, Mrs. Daniver,” said I. “There are yet other cases out yonder.”
“It’s a bad night for neuralgia,” said she complainingly.