we left he
hadn't decided where he would go or what he would do. His father and
he are together, you know, and of course that makes it harder for them
to know just how to move."

The speaker was puzzled. What could this silk-hatted, cut-away-coated,
empearled, free lance of a fellow want with Claude? He would like to
find out. So he added, "I may get a letter from him to-morrow; suppose
you stay with me until then." And, to his astonishment, Mr. Tarbox
quickly jumped at the proposition.

No letter came. But when the twenty-four hours had passed, the
surveyor had taken that same generous--not to say credulous--liking
for Mr. Tarbox that we have seen him show for St. Pierre and for
Claude. He was about to start on a tour of observation eastward
through a series of short canals that span the shaking prairies from
bayou to bayou, from Terrebonne to Lafourche, Lafourche to Des
Allemands, so through Lake Ouacha into and up Barataria, again across
prairie, and at length, leaving Lake Cataouache on the left, through
cypress-swamp to the Mississippi River, opposite New Orleans. He would
have pressed Mr. Tarbox to bear him company; but before he could ask
twice, Mr. Tarbox had consented. They went in a cat-rigged skiff, with
a stalwart negro rowing or towing whenever the sail was not the best.

"It's all of sixty miles," said the engineer; "but if the wind
doesn't change or drop we can sleep to-night in Achille's hut, send
this man and skiff back, and make Achille, with his skiff, put us on
board the Louisiana-avenue ferry-launch to-morrow afternoon."

"Who is Achille?"

"Achille? Oh! he's merely a 'Cajun pot-hunter living on a shell bank
at the edge of Lake Cataouache, with an Indian wife. Used to live
somewhere on Bayou des Allemands, but last year something or other
scared him away from there. He's odd--seems to be a sort of self-made
outcast. I don't suppose he's ever done anybody any harm; but he just
seems to be one of that kind that can't bear to even try to keep up
with the rest of humanity; the sort of man swamps and shaking prairies
were specially made for, you know. He's living right on top of a bank
of fossil shells now,--thousands of barrels of them,--that he knows
would bring him a little fortune if only he could command the
intelligence and the courage to market them in New Orleans. There's a
chance for some bright man who isn't already too busy. Why didn't I
think to mention it to Claude? But then neither he