“Yes, Peterson?”
“We’re on our last drum of gasoline, Mr. Harry,” said he. “Where’ll we put in—Baton Rouge?”
“No, we can’t do that, Peterson,” I answered. “Can’t we make it to New Orleans?”
“Hardly. But they carry gas at most of these landings now—so many power boats and autos nowadays, you see.”
“Very well. We’ll pass Bayou Sara and Baton Rouge, and then you can run in at any landing you like, say twenty miles or so below. Can you make it that far?”
“Oh, yes, but you see, at Baton Rouge——”
“You may lay to long enough to mail these letters,” said I, frowning; “but the custom of getting the baseball scores is now suspended. And send John here.”
The old man touched his cap again, a trifle puzzled. I wondered if he recognized Davidson’s waistcoat—he asked no more questions.
“John,” said I to my Chinaman, “carry this to the ladies;” and handed him a card on which I had inscribed: “Black Bart’s compliments; and he desires the attendance of the ladies on deck for a parley. At once.”
John came back in a few moments and stood on one foot. “She say, she say, Misal Hally, she say no come.”