“Yes,” responded the other, “and I’ve just made out why! And you’re right, Tarbox; you and Claude, with or without his father, will make a strong team. You’ve got no business to be canvassing books, you”—
“It’s my line,” said the canvasser, smiling fondly and pushing his hat back,—it was wonderful how he kept that hat smooth,—“and I’m the head of the line:
‘A voice replied far up the height,
Excelsior!’
I was acquainted with Mr. Longfellow.”
“Tarbox,” persisted the engineer, driving away his own smile, “you know what you are; you are a born contractor! You’ve found it out, and”—smiling again—“that’s why you’re looking for Claude.”
“Where is he?” asked Mr. Tarbox.
“Well, I told you the truth when I said I didn’t know; but I haven’t a doubt he’s in Vermilionville.”
“Neither have I,” said the book-agent; “and if I had, I wouldn’t give it room. If I knew he was in New Jersey, still I’d think he was in Vermilionville, and go there looking for him. And wherefore? For occult reasons.” The two men looked at each other smilingly in the eye, and the boat glided on.
The wind favored them. With only now and then the cordelle, and still more rarely the oars, they moved all day across the lands and waters that were once the fastnesses of the Baratarian pirates. The engineer made his desired observations without appreciable delays, and at night they slept under Achille’s thatch of rushes.
As the two travellers stood alone for a moment next morning, the engineer said: