“That’s more like it.” Ricky picked up the chocolate-pot. “Do you suppose it will ever be possible to get these clean again?”
“With a lot of will power and some good hard rubbing it can be done,” Val assured her.
“Well, I’ll supply the will power and you may do the rubbing,” she announced pleasantly.
Rupert had opened the remaining packages to display a set of twelve silver goblets, one with a dented edge, and a queerly shaped vessel not unlike an old-fashioned gravy-boat. Charity picked this up and examined it gravely.
“I’m afraid that this is pirate loot.” She tapped the lip of the piece she held. The metal gave off a clear ringing sound. “If I’m not mistaken, this was stolen from a church. Yes, I’m right; see this cross under the leaves?” She pointed out the bit of engraving.
“Black Dick’s work,” agreed Ricky complacently. “But after almost three hundred years I’m afraid we can’t return it. Especially since we don’t know where it came from in the first place.”
Val looked about at what they had uncovered. “If you are going to take all of this in to LeFleur, you’ll have to get a truck. D’you know, I think this place might turn out to be a gold-mine if one knew just where to dig.”
“We haven’t found the Luck yet,” reminded Ricky.
Val got clumsily to his feet and then gave Charity a hand up, beating Rupert to it by about three seconds. “As we don’t even know whether it is still in existence, there’s no use in hunting for it,” Val retorted.
Ricky smiled, that set little smile which usually meant that she neither agreed with nor approved of the speaker. She got up from the floor and shook out her skirt purposefully.
“I’ll remind you of that some day,” she promised.
“I suppose,” Rupert glanced at the silver, “this ought to be taken to town as soon as possible. This house is too isolated to harbor both us and the silverware at the same time. What do you think?” Ignoring both Ricky and Val, he turned to Charity.
“You are right. But it seems a pity to send it all away before we have a chance to rub it up and see what it really looks like!”
“By all means, take it at once!” Val urged promptly. “We can always clean it later.”
Rupert grinned. “Now that might be a protest against the suggestion Ricky made a few minutes ago. But I’ll save you some honest labor this time, Val; I’ll take it to town this afternoon.”
Ricky laughed softly.
“And why the merriment?” her younger brother inquired suspiciously.
“I was just thinking what a surprise the visitor who dropped his handkerchief here is going to get when he finds the cupboard bare,” she explained.
Rupert rubbed his palm across his chin. “Of course. I had almost forgotten that.”
“Well, I haven’t! And I wonder if we have found what he—or they—were hunting,” Val mused as he helped Rupert wrap up the spoil again.
Great-Uncle Rick Walks the Hall
Sam had produced a horse complete with saddle and a reputed skittishness. That horse was the pride of Sam’s big heart. It had once won a small purse at some country fair or something of the sort, and since then it had been kept only to wear the saddle at rare intervals. Not that Sam ever rode. He drove a spring-board behind a thin, sorrowful mule called “Suggah.” But the saddle horse was rented at times to white folk of whom Sam approved.
Soon after the arrival of the Ralestones at Pirate’s Haven, Sam had brought this four-footed prodigy to their attention. But claiming that the family were his “folks,” he indignantly refused to accept hire and was hurt if one of them did not ride at least once a day. Ricky had developed an interest in the garden and had accepted the loan of Sam’s eldest son, an earth-brown child about as tall as the spade, to help her mess about. Rupert spent the largest part of his days shut up in Bluebeard’s chamber. Which of course left the horse to Val.
And Val was becoming slightly bored with Louisiana, at least with that portion of it which immediately surrounded them. Charity was hard at work on her picture of the swamp hunter, for Jeems had come back without warning from his mysterious concerns in the swamp. There was no one to talk to and nowhere to go.
LeFleur had notified them that he believed he was on the track of some discreditable incident in the past of their rival which would banish him from their path. And no more handkerchiefs had been found, ownerless, in their hall. It was a serene morning.
But, Val thought long afterwards, he should have been warned by that very serenity and remembered the old saying, that it was always calmest before a storm. On the contrary, he was riding Sam’s horse along the edge of that swamp, wondering what lay hidden back in that dark jungle. Some day, he determined, he would do a little exploring in that direction.
A heron arose from the bayou and streaked across the metallic blue of the sky. Another was wading along, intent upon its fishing. Sam’s yellow dog, which had followed horse and rider, set up a barking, annoyed at the haughty carriage of the bird. He scrambled down the steep bank, drove it into flight after its fellow.
Val pulled his shirt away from his sticky skin and wondered if he would ever feel really cool again. There was something about this damp heat which seemed to remove all ambition. He marveled how Ricky could even think of trimming roses that morning.
Sam’s dog began to bark deafeningly again, and Val looked around for the heron which must have aroused his displeasure. There was none. But across the swamp crawled an ungainly monster.
Four great rubber-tired wheels, ten feet high, as he later learned, supported a metal framework upon which squatted two men and the driver of the monstrosity. With the ponderous solemnity of a tank it came on to the bayou.
Val’s mount snorted and his ears pricked back. He began to have very definite ideas about what he saw. The thing slipped down the marshy bank and took to the water with ease, turning its square nose downstream and sending waves shoreward.
“Ride ‘em, cowboy!” yelled one of the men derisively as Sam’s horse decided to stand on his hind legs and wave at the strange apparition as it went by. Val brought him down upon four feet again, and he stood sweating, his ears still back.
“What do you call that?” the boy shouted back.
“Prospecting engine for swamp use,” answered the driver. “Don’t you swampers ever get the news?”
The car, or whatever it was, moved on downstream and so out of sight.
“Now I wonder what that was,” Val said aloud as his mount sidled toward the center of the road. The hound-dog came up and sat down to kick a patch of flea-invaded territory which lay behind his left ear. Again the morning was quiet.
But not for long. A mud-spattered car came around the bend in the road and headed at Val, going a good pace for the dirt surfacing. Before it quite reached him it stopped and the driver stuck his head out of the window.
“Hey, you, move over! Whatya tryin’ to do—break somebody’s neck?”
Val surveyed him with interest. The man was, perhaps, Rupert’s age, a small, thin fellow with thick black hair and the white seam of an old scar beneath his left eye.
“This is,” the boy replied, “a private road.”
“Yeah,” he snarled, “I know. And I’m the owner. So get your hobby-horse going and beat it, kid.”
Val shifted in the saddle and stared down at him.
“And what might your name be?” he asked softly.
“What d’yuh think it is? Hitler? I’m Ralestone,