AS good fortune would have it, we swung in, opposite the screened mouth of Henry’s Bayou, at a time when the stream was free of all craft that might have observed us, although far across the forest we could see a black column of smoke, marking a river steamer coming up.
“Quick with that long boat, Lafitte,” I ordered; and he drew our old craft alongside as we slowed down. “Get over yonder and sound for a bar. Take the boat hook. If you get four feet, we’ll try it.”
My hardy young ruffian was nothing if not prompt, nor was he less efficient than the average deck-hand. It was he who did the sounding while Willie, our factotum, pulled slowly in toward the mouth of the old river bed. I watched them through the glasses, noting that rarely could Lafitte find any bottom at all with the long shaft of the boat hook. “She’s all right, Peterson,” said I. “Follow on in, slowly—I don’t want that steamer yonder to catch us.”
“Why don’t you?” A voice I should know, to which all my body would thrill, did I hear it in any corner of the world, spoke at my elbow. I started for a half instant before I made reply, looking into her dark eyes, sensible again of the perfume most delirium-producing for a man: the scent of a woman’s hair.
“Because, Helena,” said I, “I wish our boat to lie unnoticed for a time, till the hue and cry has lulled a bit.”
“And then?” She bent on me her gaze, so difficult to resist, and smiled at me with the corners of her lips, so subtly irresistible. I felt a rush of fire sweep through all my being, and something she must have noted, for she gave back a bit and stood more aloof along the rail.
“And then,” said I savagely, “this boat runs by all the towns, till we reach the Gulf, and the open sea.”
“And then?”
“And then, Helena, we sail the ocean blue, you and I.”
“For how long?”