that the little sail
just visible toward the Rigolets is a sloop with a half-deck, well
filled with men, in all probability a pleasure party bound to the
Chandeleurs on a fishing and gunning excursion, and passes into comments
on the superior skill of landsmen over seamen in the handling of small
sailing craft.

By and by the two vessels near each other. They approach within hailing
distance, and are announcing each to each their identity, when the young
man at the tiller jerks himself to a squatting posture, and, from under
a broad-brimmed and slouched straw hat, cries to the schooner's one
passenger:

"Hello, Challie Keene."

And the passenger more quietly answers back:

"Hello, Raoul, is that you?"

M. Innerarity replied, with a profane parenthesis, that it was he.

"You kin hask Sylvestre!" he concluded.

The doctor's eye passed around a semicircle of some eight men, the most
of whom were quite young, but one or two of whom were gray, sitting with
their arms thrown out upon the wash-board, in the dark neglige of
amateur fishermen and with that exultant look of expectant deviltry in
their handsome faces which characterizes the Creole with his collar off.

The mettlesome little doctor felt the odds against him in the exchange
of greetings.

"Ola, Dawctah!"

"_He_, Doctah, _que-ce qui t'apres fe?_"

"_Ho, ho, compere Noyo!_"

"_Comment va_, Docta?"

A light peppering of profanity accompanied each salute.

The doctor put on defensively a smile of superiority to the juniors and
of courtesy to the others, and responsively spoke their names:

"'Polyte--Sylvestre--Achille--Emile--ah! Agamemnon."

The Doctor and Agamemnon raised their hats.

As Agamemnon was about to speak, a general expostulatory outcry drowned
his voice. The _Pique-en-terre_ was going about close abreast of the
schooner, and angry questions and orders were flying at Raoul's head
like a volley of eggs.

"Messieurs," said Raoul, partially rising but still stooping over the
tiller, and taking his hat off his bright curls with mock courtesy, "I
am going back to New Orleans. I would not give _that_ for all the fish
in the sea; I want to see my wife. I am going back to New Orleans to see
my wife--and to congratulate the city upon your absence." Incredulity,
expostulation, reproach, taunt, malediction--he smiled unmoved upon
them all.

"Messieurs, I _must_ go and see my wife."

Amid redoubled outcries he gave the helm to Camille Brahmin