But here it was, and the cracker turned his mules into it, swinging sharply to the left along Coakachee Creek and proceeding for about two miles, where a shell mound enabled him to turn his team.
A wagon could proceed no farther because the crumbling Causeway narrowed to a foot-path beyond. So here they unloaded; the cracker rested his mules for a while, then said a brief good-bye to White and shook the reins.
When he had driven out of sight, White started to drag his tent and tent-poles along the dike top toward his own property, which ought to lie just ahead—somewhere near the curve that the Causeway made a hundred yards beyond. For he had discovered a weather-beaten shingle nailed to a water-oak, where he had disembarked his luggage; and on it were the remains of the painted number 198.
Lugging tent and poles, he started along the Causeway, keeping a respectful eye out for snakes. So intent was he on avoiding the playful attentions of rattler or moccasin that it was only when he almost ran into it that he discovered another tent pitched directly in his path.[279]
Of course he had expected to find her encamped there on the Causeway, but he was surprised, nevertheless, and his tent-poles fell, clattering.
A second later the flap of her tent was pushed aside, and his red-haired neighbour of the galleries stepped out, plainly startled.[280]
XXVIII
She seemed to be still more startled when she saw him: her blue eyes dilated; the colour which had ebbed came back, suffusing her pretty features. But when she recognised him, fear, dismay, astonishment, and anxiety blended in swift confusion, leaving her silent, crimson, rooted to the spot.