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"You must come and have a look at my new yacht, Mrs. Moncreiff," said Mr. Gilman in his solemn, thick voice. "I always say that no yacht is herself without ladies on board, a yacht being feminine, you see." He gave a little laugh. "Ah! My oncle!" Madame Piriac broke in. "I see in that no reason. If a yacht was masculine then I could see the reason in it."
"'Hello, Jack, he says, an' his manner is insultin'; 'been makin' it smoky down on the old San Simon lately? "'No; not since last fall, says Jack, plenty light an' free; 'an' now I thinks of it, I b'lieves I sees that Navajo hoss-thief of an oncle of yours when I'm down thar last. I ain't run up on him none lately, though. Where do you-all reckon he's done 'loped to?
Ye've not forgot me, Fitz!" "Mebby he don't like ye as well as ye thought he did," drawled Oncle Jazon. "I HEV known o' fellers a bein' mistaken jes' thet way." Beverley got his wits together as best he could, taking in the situation by such degrees as seemed at the time unduly slow, but which were really mere momentary falterings. "Why, Kenton!
"Hain't seed the scamp," said Oncle Jazon, only he used the patois most familiar to the girl's ear. "Killed an' scelped long ago, I reckon." His mouth was so full that he spoke mumblingly and with utmost difficulty. Nor did he glance at Adrienne, whose face took on as great pallor as her brown complexion could show. Beverley ate but little of the food.
None of them save Clark and Oncle Jazon suspected that love for a fair-haired girl yonder in Vincennes was the secret of his amazing zeal and intrepidity. In one respect Clark's expedition was sadly lacking in its equipment for the march. It had absolutely no means of transporting adequate supplies.
It's mostly women 'at sends men a trottin' off 'bout nothin', sort o' crazy like." Beverley looked guilty and Oncle Jazon continued: "They's a poo'ty gal at Vincennes, an' I see the young man a steppin' into her house about fifteen times a day 'fore I lef' the place. Mebbe she's tuck up wi' one o' them English officers. Gals is slippery an' onsartin'."
Indeed pursuit was baffled. No further trace could be found, by which to follow the cunning fugitive. Some of the men consoled themselves by saying, without believing, that Long-Hair was probably lying drowned at the bottom of the river. "Pas du tout," observed Oncle Jazon, his short pipe askew far over in the corner of his mouth, "not a bit of it is that Indian drowned.
"No, he is not Chinese," Sara whispered back; "he is very ill. Go on with your exercise, Lottie. 'Non, monsieur. Je n'ai pas le canif de mon oncle." That was the beginning of the story of the Indian gentleman. Ram Dass There were fine sunsets even in the square, sometimes. One could only see parts of them, however, between the chimneys and over the roofs.
Oncle Jazon turned to Beverley and said in rapid French: "Surely the man's not going to fight those fellows yonder?" Beverley nodded rather gloomily. "Well," added the old man, fingering his rifle's stock and taking another glance through the gate, "I can't shoot wo'th a cent, bein' sort o' nervous like; but I'll stan' by ye awhile, jes' for luck. I might accidentally hit one of 'em."
"We kin do better some'rs else," was Oncle Jazon's laconic remark flung back over his shoulder, as he moved briskly away from the spot just swept by a six-pounder. "Come this yer way, Lieutenant. I hyer some o' the fellers a talkin' loud jes' beyant Legrace's place. They ain't no sort o' sense a tryin' to hit anything a shootin' in the dark nohow."
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