When at sunset he stood under the honey-locust tree on the levee where he was wont to find his father waiting for him, he found himself alone. But within speaking distance he saw St. Pierre’s skiff just being drawn ashore by a ragged negro, who presently turned and came to him, half-lifting the wretched hat that slouched about his dark brows, and smiling.
“Sim like you done fo’got me,” he said. “Don’t you ’member how I use’ live at Belle Alliance? Yes, seh. I’s de one what show Bonaventure de road to Gran’ Point’. Yes, seh. But I done lef’ dah since Mistoo Wallis sole de place. Yes, seh. An’ when I meet up wid you papa you nevva see a nigger so glad like I was. No, seh. An’ likewise you papa. Yes, seh. An’ he ass me is I want to wuck fo’ him, an’ I see he needin’ he’p, an’ so I tu’n in an’ he’p him. Oh, yes, seh! dass mo’ ’n a week, now, since I been wuckin’ fo’ you papa.”
They got into the skiff and pushed off, the negro alone at the oars.
“Pow’ful strong current on udder side,” he said, pulling quietly up-stream to offset the loss of way he must make presently in crossing the rapid flood. “Mistoo Claude, I see a gen’leman dis day noon what I ain’t see’ befo’ since ’bout six year’ an’ mo’. I disremember his name, but——”
“Tarbox?” asked Claude with sudden interest.
“Yes, seh. Dass it! Tah-bawx. Sim like any man ought to ’member dat name. Him an’ you papa done gone down de canal. Yes, seh; in a pirogue. He come in a big hurry an’ say how dey got a big crevasse up de river on dat side, an’ he want make you papa see one man what livin’ on Lac Cataouaché. Yes, seh. An you papa say you fine you supper in de pot. An’ Mistoo Tah-bawx he say he want you teck one hoss an’ ride up till de crevasse an’ you fine one frien’ of yose yondah, one ingineer; an’ he say—Mistoo Tah-bawx—how he ’low to meet up wid you at you papa’ house to-morrow daylight. Yes, seh; Mistoo Tah-bawx; yes, seh.”
CHAPTER XV.
CAN THEY CLOSE THE BREAK?
The towering cypresses of the far, southern swamps have a great width of base, from which they narrow so rapidly in the first seven or eight feet of their height, and thence upward taper so gradually, that it is almost or quite impossible for an axe-man, standing at their roots, to chop through the great flare that he finds abreast of him, and bring the trees down. But when the swamps are deep in water, the swamper may paddle up to these trees, whose narrowed waists are now within the swing of his axe, and standing up in his canoe, by a marvel of balancing skill, cut and cut, until at length his watchful, up-glancing eye sees the forest giant bow his head. Then a shove, a few backward sweeps of the paddle, and the canoe glides aside, and the great trunk falls, smiting the smooth surface of the water with a roar that, miles away, reaches the ear like the thunder of artillery. The tree falls: but if the woodsman has not known how to judge and choose wisely when the inner wood is laid bare under the first big chip that flies, there are many chances that the fallen tree will instantly sink to the bottom of the water, and cannot be rafted out. One must know his craft, even in Louisiana swamps. “Knowledge is power.”