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, and fighting his way with his pretty feet against half-real efforts to throw him overboard, clambered forward to the mast, whence a moment later, with the help of the schooner-master’s hand, he reached the deck of the larger vessel.  The Pique-en-terre turned, and with a little flutter spread her smooth wing and skimmed away.

“Doctah Keene, look yeh!” M. Innerarity held up a hand whose third finger wore the conventional ring of the Creole bridegroom.  “W’at you got to say to dat?”

The little doctor felt a faintness run through his veins, and a thrill of anger follow it.  The poor man could not imagine a love affair that did not include Clotilde Nancanou.

“Whom have you married?”

“De pritties’ gal in de citty.”

The questioner controlled himself.

“M-hum,” he responded, with a contraction of the eyes.

Raoul waited an instant for some kindlier comment, and finding the hope vain, suddenly assumed a look of delighted admiration.

“Hi, yi, yi!  Doctah, ’ow you har lookingue fine.”

The true look of the doctor was that he had not much longer to live.  A smile of bitter humor passed over his face, and he looked for a near seat, saying: 

“How’s Frowenfeld?”

Raoul struck an ecstatic attitude and stretched forth his hand as if the doctor could not fail to grasp it.  The invalid’s heart sank like lead.

“Frowenfeld has got her,” he thought.

“Well?” said he with a frown of impatience and restraint; and Raoul cried: