t more and more, more!

She held her peace; and all I could do was to stand and stare and then
hold out my hand. She took it formally, though her color heightened. I
saluted Aunt Lucinda also, who glared at me. "How do you do?" I said
to them both, with much originality and daring.

"Black Bart!" snorted Aunt Lucinda. "Black Bart! It might be, from
these goings on. What does it all mean?"

"It means, my dear Mrs. Daniver," said I, "that I have taken charge of
the boat myself."

"But how?" demanded Helena. "We did not hear you were coming. And I
don't understand. Why, that rascally little nephew of mine, in the
mask, frightened auntie nearly to death. And he said the most
extraordinary _things_!

"Where is Mr. Davidson?" she added. "He didn't tell us a word of
this."

"He didn't know a word of it himself," I answered. "Let me tell you,
no self-respecting pirate--and as you see, I am a pirate--is in the
habit of telling his plans in advance."

"A pirate!"

I bowed politely. "At your service. Black Bart--my visiting cards are
mislaid, but I intend ordering some new ones. The ship's cook, John,
will soon be here with tea. These events may have been wearying.
Meantime, allow me to present my friend Partial."

Partial certainly understood human speech. He now approached Helena
slowly and stood looking up into her face in adoration. Then, without
any command, he lay down deliberately and rolled over; sat up, barked;
and so, having done all his repertory for her whom he now--as had his
master before him--loved at first sight, he stood again and
worshiped.

"Nice doggie!" said Helena courteously.

"Have a care, Helena!" said I. "Love my dog, love me! And all the
world loves Partial."

The color heightened in her cheeks. I had never spoken so boldly to
her before, but had rather dealt in argument than in assertion; which
I, later, was to learn is no way to make love to any woman.

"When do we get back to Natchez?" she demanded.

"We do not get back to Natchez."

"Oh? Then I suppose Mr. Davidson picks us up at Baton Rouge?"

"Yon varlet," said I, "does not pick us up at Baton Rouge."

"New Orleans?"

"Or at New Orleans--unless he is luckier than I ever knew even Cal to
be."

"Whatever do you mean?" inquired Aunt Lucinda in tones ominously deep.

"That the _Belle Helene_ is much faster than the tug we left behind at
Natchez, even did he find it. He will have hard work to catch us."

"To _catch us_?"