If my stratagem had succeeded in impressing my friend Chico with a most
lively fear, it did not leave my own mind at perfect tranquillity. I
knew that he must be a fellow of infinite resources, and that the game
between us, in all likelihood, had but commenced. In circumstances of
difficulty, I have constantly made a practice of changing places with my
antagonist, fancying myself in _his_ position, and asking myself how I
should act? This taking the "adversary's hand" is admirable practice
in the game of life; it suggests an immense range of combinations, and
improves one's play prodigiously.

I now began to myself a little exercise after this fashion: but what
between previous fatigue, the warmth of the cabin, and the luxury of
a real bed, Chico and I changed places so often, in my brain, that
confusion ensued, then came weariness, and, at last sound sleep,--so
sound that I was only awoke by the steward as he popped his greasy head
into the berth and said, "I say, master, here we are, standing close in:
had n't you better get up?"

I did as he advised; and, as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, said,
"Where's the Padre, steward?--what's become of him?"

"He was took ill last night, and stopped at Fork Island; he 'll go back
with us to-morrow to Galveston."

"You know him, I suppose?" said I, looking at the fellow with a shrewd
intelligence that he knew how to construe.

"Well," cried he, scratching his head, "well, mayhap I do guess a bit
who he is."

"So do I, steward; and when we meet again, he 'll know _me_." said
I, with a look of such imposing sternness that I saw the fellow was
recording it. "You may tell him so, steward. I 'll wait for him
here till I catch him; and if he escape both myself and my friend
Broughton,--Broughton; don't forget the name,--he is deeper than I give
him credit for."

As I was about to leave the cabin, I caught sight of the corner of a
red handkerchief peeping out beneath the pillow of the berth. I drew
it forth, and found it was Chico's travelling kit, which he preferred
abandoning to the risk of again meeting me. It contained a small black
skull-cap such as priests wear, a Romish missal, a string of beads, with
a few common articles of dress, and eight dollars in silver.

"The spoils of victory," quoth I, embodying the whole in my own bundle:
"the enemy's baggage and the military chest captured."

"Which is the White Hart?" said I, as I came on deck, now crowded with
shore f