"Meppy she dit, und meppy she saw dem, or heard dem."
"If she saw Whistler and his outfit in a smoke picture," went on Dick, "and then came to warn us, it not only proves that she means well, but that there's something in that smoke business."
Matt smiled a little.
"We'd better forget all that happened last night, pards," said he. "We can't make head or tail out of it, anyhow, and I don't believe in worrying over things you can't understand. We helped Yamousa; and Yamousa, in her own way, has tried to befriend us. Suppose we let it go at that and sponge out the occult part of it? The biggest, and possibly the most amazing discovery we made, was that Whistler got clear of the Bahamas and seems to have got this far on the trail of the iron chest. If Whistler is on the trail, no doubt Lat Jurgens is, also. Perhaps Townsend knew about this when he telegraphed us to come to New Orleans."
"I hope nothing has happened to Townsend," murmured Dick, his mind reverting to the smoke picture he had seen.
"There you go again," laughed Matt. "You're still thinking of what Yamousa showed us, and imagining there may be something in it. Cut it out, Dick. If there's anything in the picture we'll know it before long. Dip into the ration bag and get out some breakfast—I'm nearly starved."
While Dick held to the post of lookout, Carl drew on the food supply and all hands ate a cold breakfast.
After the meal the boys passed an hour discussing Jurgens and Whistler, their designs on the iron chest, and the way they had probably escaped from the sand key in the Bahamas. For the most part, the discussion led nowhere. The boys could make guesses, but unless they were to put their faith in what Yamousa told them, their talk could bring them to nothing definite.
The conversation was interrupted by Dick.
"Mississippi, ho!" he cried. "The river's dead ahead, mates, and hard under our forefoot."