style="font-size:15px;"> “Pistols for two—coffee for one. Rupert or I would have met him out at the dueling oaks and that would have been the end of him.”
“Or you. But dueling—here!”
“Very common. The finest fencing masters on the North American continent plied their trade here. Why, one, Pepe Llula, the most famous duelist of his time, became the guardian of a cemetery just so, as gossip rumored, he could have some place to bury his opponents.
“Then on the other hand, if dueling were too risky, we might have had him voodooed, had we lived back in the good old days. Paid that voodoo queen—what was her name? Marie something or other—to put a curse on him so he’d just wither away.”
“And serve him right, too.” Ricky stared straight before her. “I don’t know how you feel about it, but I’m not going to give up Pirate’s Haven without a fight. It’s—it’s the first real home we’ve ever had. Rupert’s older; he’s spent his time traveling and seeing the world; it may not mean so much to him. But you and I, Val—You know what it’s been like! Schools, and spending the holidays with aunts or in those frightful camps, never getting a chance to be together. We can’t—we just can’t have this only to lose it again. We can’t!” her voice broke.
“So we won’t.”
“Val, when you say things like that, I can almost believe them. If—if we do lose, let’s stick together this time. Promise?” her voice lifted in an effort toward lightness.
“I promise. After this it will be the two of us together. Do you know, I’ve never really had a chance to get acquainted with my very good-looking sister.”
She laughed. “I can’t very well curtsy while sitting down in here, but ‘thank yuh for them purty words, stranger.’ And now for the express station. Then you are to stop at the Southeastern News Association headquarters for something of Rupert’s and—”
The afternoon went quickly enough. They despatched the rest of their possessions from the express station to Pirate’s Haven, went on a round of miscellaneous shopping, picked up a weighty box at the News Association, and ended up at five o’clock by visiting that institution of New Orleans, a coffee-house. Ricky was earnestly peeking into one of her ten or so small bags. They had parked the car and Val complained that he had become a sort of packhorse, and anything but patient one.
“What if your feet do hurt,” his sister said wearily as she closed the bag and reached for another. “So do mine. These sidewalks feel like red-hot iron. I’ll bet I could do one of those fakir tricks where you’re supposed to walk over red-hot plowshares.”
“Not only my feet but also my backbone is protesting. Whether you have reached the end of that Anthony Adverse of a shopping list or not, we’re going home! And what are you looking for? You’ve opened all those bags at least twice and dropped no less than three on the floor each time,” he snapped irritably.
“My pralines. I’m sure I gave them to you to carry. I’ve heard of New Orleans pralines all my life, so I got some today and now they’ve disappeared.”
“They were probably included in that last arm-load of parcels I stowed in the car. Are you through?”
Ricky looked into her coffee-cup. “It’s empty, so I guess I am. Where is the car? I’m so lost I don’t know where we are now.”
“We left it about three blocks away on the sunny side of the street,” Val informed her with the relish of one who is thoroughly tired of his present existence. “If this is your usual behavior on a shopping trip, Rupert may bring you in the next time. Half an hour to choose a toothbrush-mug in the ten-cent store!”
“For a person who spends a good fifteen minutes matching a tie and a handkerchief,” sniffed Ricky as she rose, “you’re in a hurry to criticize others.”
“Come on!” her brother almost howled as he scooped up the packages.
“Anyway, we won’t have to get supper or wash the dishes or anything.” She pulled off her hat as she settled herself in the car. “It’s so beastly hot, but it’ll be cooler at home. Do you suppose we could go swimming in the bayou?”
“I don’t see why not.” Val guided the roadster into a side street. “Where’s that map of the city? We’ve got to see how to get back on to North Rampart from here.”
“I’ll look.” Ricky bent her head and so she did not see the two figures walking close together and so rapt in conversation that the one on the curb side brushed against a lamp-post.
Now just what, considered Val, was the slim young clerk from Mr. LeFleur’s office telling that red-faced man in the too-snug suit? He would have liked to have overheard a word or two. Perhaps he had become unduly suspicious but—he had his doubts.
“We turn left at the next corner,” said Ricky.
Val changed gears and drove on.
Their Tenant Discovers the Ralestones
Val stood on the small ornamental bridge pitching twigs down into the tiny garden brook. A moody frown creased his forehead. Under his feet lay a pair of pruning-shears he had borrowed from Sam with the intention of doing something about the jungle which surrounded Pirate’s Haven on three sides. That is, he had intended doing something, but now—
“Penny for your thoughts.”
“Lady,” he answered dismally without turning around, “you can have a bushel of them for less than that.”
“There is a neat expression which describes you beautifully at this moment,” commented Ricky as she came up beside her brother. “Have you ever heard of a ‘sour puss?”
“Several times. Oh, what’s the use!” Val kicked at a long twig. A warm wind brought in its hold the heavy scent of flowering bushes and trees. His shirt clung to his shoulders damply. It was hot even in the shade of the oaks. Rupert had gone to town to see LeFleur and hear the worst, so that Pirate’s Haven, save for themselves and Letty-Lou, was deserted.
“Come on,” Ricky’s arm slid through his, “let’s explore. Think of it—we’ve been here two whole days and we don’t know yet what our back yard looks like. Rupert says that our land runs clear down into the swamp. Let’s go see.”
“But I was going to—” He made a feeble beginning toward stooping for the pruning-shears.
“Val Ralestone, nobody can work outdoors in this heat, and you know it. Now come on. Bring those with you and we’ll leave them in the carriage house as we pass it. You know,” she continued as they went along the path, “the trouble with us is that we haven’t enough to do. What we need is a good old-fashioned job.”
“I thought we were going to be treasure hunters,” he protested laughingly.
“That’s merely a side-line. I’m talking about the real thing, something which will pay us cash money on Saturday nights or thereabout.”
“Well, we can both use a typewriter fairly satisfactorily,” Val offered. “But as you are the world’s worst speller and I am apt to become entangled in my commas, I can’t
