him."

"Or you. But dueling--here!"

"Very common. The finest fencing masters on the North American continent
plied their trade here. Why, one, Pepe Llula, the most famous duelist of
his time, became the guardian of a cemetery just so, as gossip rumored,
he could have some place to bury his opponents.

"Then on the other hand, if dueling were too risky, we might have had
him voodooed, had we lived back in the good old days. Paid that voodoo
queen--what was her name? Marie something or other--to put a curse on
him so he'd just wither away."

"And serve him right, too." Ricky stared straight before her. "I don't
know how you feel about it, but I'm not going to give up Pirate's Haven
without a fight. It's--it's the first real home we've ever had. Rupert's
older; he's spent his time traveling and seeing the world; it may not
mean so much to him. But you and I, Val--You know what it's been like!
Schools, and spending the holidays with aunts or in those frightful
camps, never getting a chance to be together. We can't--we just can't
have this only to lose it again. We can't!" her voice broke.

"So we won't."

"Val, when you say things like that, I can almost believe them. If--if
we do lose, let's stick together this time. Promise?" her voice lifted
in an effort toward lightness.

"I promise. After this it will be the two of us together. Do you know,
I've never really had a chance to get acquainted with my very
good-looking sister."

She laughed. "I can't very well curtsy while sitting down in here, but
'thank yuh for them purty words, stranger.' And now for the express
station. Then you are to stop at the Southeastern News Association
headquarters for something of Rupert's and--"

The afternoon went quickly enough. They despatched the rest of their
possessions from the express station to Pirate's Haven, went on a round
of miscellaneous shopping, picked up a weighty box at the News
Association, and ended up at five o'clock by visiting that institution
of New Orleans, a coffee-house. Ricky was earnestly peeking into one of
her ten or so small bags. They had parked the car and Val complained
that he had become a sort of packhorse, and anything but patient one.

"What if your feet do hurt," his sister said wearily as she closed the
bag and reached for another. "So do mine. These sidewalks feel like
red-hot iron. I'll bet I could do one of those fakir tricks where you're
supposed to walk over red-hot plowshares."

"N