Her father stared. “Eight or nine? By the holy! Is it like that? Where have you seen him?”
“Twice at our home, as you know; two or three times at dances at the Belle Chatelaine, and the rest when we were at Quebec in May. He is amusing, M’sieu’ Lafarge.”
“Yes, two of a kind,” remarked Tarboe drily; and then he told his schemes to Joan, letting Bissonnette hang up the “The Demoiselle with the Scarlet Hose,” and begin “The Coming of the Gay Cavalier.” She entered into his plans with spirit, and together they speculated what bay it might be, of the many on the coast of Labrador.
They spent two days longer waiting, and then at dawn a merchantman came sauntering up to anchor. She signalled to the Ninety-Nine. In five minutes Tarboe was climbing up the side of the Free-and-Easy, and presently was in Gobal’s cabin, with a glass of wine in his hand.
“What kept you, Gobal?” he asked. “You’re ten days late, at least.”
“Storm and sickness—broken mainmast and smallpox.” Gobal was not cheerful.
Tarboe caught at something. “You’ve got our man?” Gobal drank off his wine slowly. “Yes,” he said. “Well?—Why don’t you fetch him?”
“You can see him below.”
“The man has legs, let him walk here. Hello, my Gobal, what’s the matter? If he’s here bring him up. We’ve no time to lose.”
“Tarboe, the fool got smallpox, and died three hours ago—the tenth man since we started. We’re going to give him to the fishes. They’re putting him in his linen now.”