Latitude 19 degree Part 6

"Is she inside of it?"

"Who? Aunt Mary 'Zekel? Mercy, no! She's just as much alive as you are.

At least, she was when I left home. There's her tomb in the middle.

Uncle 'Zekel's buried inside of it."

I withdrew my eyes from the Yankee Blade.

"Isn't he rather heavy to carry round?"

"Don't be silly, Mr. Jones. His name's on the other side. It doesn't show on the bag. On the right you see Antony's shaft, and then little Peter's--there was always a Peter in the family--and on the left comes Gertrude, and then Mary--Aunt Mary 'Zekel's little girl. The beginning of that next one is for Adoniah. She didn't have time to work that in."

"Oh, I see! She chose the time to depict the plot when a burial was in progress. There are the horses' tails."

"How can you joke on such a solemn subject, Mr. Jones?" I dropped the gla.s.s at her evident displeasure, and it rolled down the slight declivity. "Those are not horse tails, as you know very well. Besides, they are green. Any one can see that they are weeping willows. She didn't have time to work the trunks. She's going to do that when I come back. Please do not add stupidity to your other failings, Mr. Jones."

She moved the bag to a safe distance from me with a reverential and disappointed air.

"Where is that gla.s.s?" she said.

Every man on the beach ran for the spygla.s.s. The Cook got it first.

"Thank you, Cook," she said, with a radiant smile.

"You never looked at me as you did at that Cook just now," I whispered under my breath.

"The Cook never presumes," she answered in a low tone. "Lend me your shoulder, Cook."

The Cook knelt on the beach with Spartan firmness. I did not envy him his cus.h.i.+on of sharp and jagged rocks. I gloated with joy over the wince into which his features were twisted. The Skipper turned and waved his arm at me.

"Come here, Jones! One would think you were at a picnic, the whole of you."

I walked over to where the Skipper stood, fanning himself violently with his panama.

"You told me to keep my eye on them, sir," said I. "Hadn't that Cook better build a fire?"

"What! Think he's hungry so soon?" with a grim smile. "We must husband our resources, Mr. Jones."

"Sounds just like a s.h.i.+pwreck," called Cynthia, who had caught the Skipper's words. "'Husband our resources!' Isn't that delightful!"

"We've got no place to sleep to-night, sir," said I, pursuing my theme.

"There are all sorts of crawlers in the bushes yonder. A fire will clear up the place, and will cool off before night."

"You've got more sense than I credited you with," said the Skipper.

"Cook, build a fire up there under those trees." The Cook arose, joy and regret intermingled in his looks.

"Thank you, Cook. I never rested the gla.s.s on so steady a shoulder."

She had rested it on mine a hundred times.

Thus we each took our turn at the gla.s.s, and each told each other what we saw.

"If they're looking for money, they'll be almighty disappointed," said the Skipper in a low tone to his niece and myself. "I took all there was."

Then in an undertone, and with that rashness of statement that sometimes we live to regret, "I wish I could strike a flint in that magazine. What was that, Mr. Jones?"

We saw a puff of smoke out at sea, and some moments later a report.

"Why should the British attack us, Uncle?" asked Cynthia. "I thought we were at peace now."

I shook my head at the Skipper.

"Don't know as they have," answered the old man for want of a better explanation.

Cynthia jumped from her seat and ran back to a slight ascent which rose above the beach. To the top of this she climbed, and, shadowing those wondrous eyes with her hand, gazed out to sea.

"It's another vessel! An American, I am sure! Yes, I can see the flag; probably a man-of-war. Regular officers, of course. They won't know how to spell R-U-N--Run!"

"Did you hear me tell you to stop sa.s.sin' me a while back? 'Twas the best we could do. Some one got us off our course on purpose. They tell me some one's got a Hatien wife down here."

At these words Cynthia, who at this time seemed to live to make me miserable, surveyed me with unconcealed scorn.

"You had the wheel while Uncle was taking his nap," said she.

"I turned it over to Tomkins a half hour before I called you, Miss Archer. I have never been here before, give you my word," said I.

"I think they're leaving the Yankee now," said the Skipper. "When they take what they want and clear out, we can right her and get her on her course, and I'll take care how I get in these waters again."

Cynthia took the gla.s.s from her Uncle without permission.

"Yes, they are," said she. "Don't you see those black figures climbing over the bulwarks? There, to the right of the mainmast."

"Guess I must be looking through the other end," said the Skipper.

Cynthia restored the magnifying medium with some reluctance.

"My eyes are so much better than yours, Uncle Tony," she urged.

"Use 'em, then!" said the Skipper shortly, as he screwed the gla.s.s to a focus. "Yes, they certainly have gone. Yes, by cracky! there goes another shot from the American." He ran a little higher up the hill to a better vantage point. We followed. "I can see 'em now over the bulwarks of the old Yankee. They're pulling like Satan for the Britisher. Hope the Americans 'll knock Ned Chudleigh's head off!"

He changed his focus, and fixed his gaze on the newcomer.

"That last fellow's an American, sure! The other has turned his attention to him."

As the Skipper looked through the gla.s.s and reported what he saw, there were several shots interchanged between the two vessels.

"Hope they'll knock seven bells out of 'em!"

"Cook, send up a smoke. They will see us, perhaps, and take us off. Are those our colours, Mr. Jones? Perhaps you can make----"