“Black Bart,” said L’Olonnois, after breakfast as we all stood on deck—Helena, Auntie Lucinda and all—“what’s all them things floatin’ around in the water?”
“They look like bottles, leftenant,” said I; “perhaps they may have floated in here. How do you suppose they came here, Mrs. Daniver?” I asked.
“How should I know?” sniffed that lady.
“Well, good leftenant, go overside, you and Jean, and gather up all those bottles, and carry them with my compliments to the ladies at their cabin. You can have the satisfaction of throwing them all overboard later on, Mrs. Daniver. Only, remember, that there is no current in the bayou, and they will stay where they fall for weeks, unless for the wind.”
“And where shall we be, then?” demanded Auntie Lucinda, who had eaten a hearty breakfast, and I must say was looking uncommon fit for one so afflicted with neuralgia.
“Oh, very likely here, in the same place, my dear Mrs. Daniver,” said I, “unless war should break out meantime. At present we all seem to have a very good modus vivendi, and as I have no pressing engagements, I can conceive of nothing more charming than passing the winter here in your society.” Saying which I bowed, and turning to Helena, “At eleven, then, if you please?”