Samson went trotting along the twisting banks, we cautiously feeling our way after him, for something like a quarter of a mile; and then, coming round a sudden bend, the creek opened out into a sort of basin.  On the left bank stood two large palmetto shanties.  Samson indicated that there was our anchorage; and then, as we were almost alongside of them, the cheery halloos of a well-known voice hailed us.  It was the “King”; and, as I answered his welcome, the morning suddenly sang for me—­for there too was Calypso, at his side.

The water ran so deep at the creek’s side that we were able to moor the Flamingo right up against the bank, and, when I had jumped ashore and greeted my friends, and the “King” had executed a brief characteristic fantasia on the manifest advantages of having a hidden pirate’s creek in the family, he unfolded his plans, or rather that portion of them that was necessary at the moment.

The crew of the Flamingo, he said, had better stay where they were for the present.  If they were tired of sleeping aboard, there were his two palmetto palaces, with couches of down on which to stretch their limbs—­and, for amusement—­poor devils!—­he swept his eyes whimsically around that dreariest of landscapes—­they might exercise their imaginations by pretending, after the manner of John Teach, that they were on an excursion to Hades—­this was the famous River Acheron—­and so on.  But, seriously, he ended, we would find some way of keeping them from committing hari-kari and, meanwhile, we would leave them in peace, and stroll along toward breakfast.

At that moment, Sailor rubbed his head against my knee.

“Ah!” said the “King,” “the heroic canine!  He, of course, must not be left behind.  We may very well need you in our counsels, eh, old fellow?” and he made friends with Sailor in a moment, as only a man who loves dogs can.

I believe I was second in Sailor’s affection from that moment of his meeting the “King.”  But then, who wouldn’t have been?

So then, after a reassuring word or two with Tom and the Captain, we went our ways toward breakfast—­the “King’s” tongue and Sailor’s wagging happily in concert every inch of the way.

CHAPTER XI

An Old Enemy.

Charlie Webster’s laconic note was naturally our chief topic over breakfast. “Tobias escaped—­just heard he is on your island.  Watch out.  Will follow in a day or two.” The “King” read it out, when I handed him the note across the table.

“Your friend writes like a true man of action,” he added, “like Caesar—­and also the electric telegraph.  We must send word to Sweeney to be on the look-out for him.  I will send Samson the Redoubtable with a message to him this morning.  Meanwhile, we will smoke and think.”

Then for the next hour the “King” thought—­aloud; while Calypso and I sat and listened, occasionally throwing in a parenthesis of comment or suggestion.  It was evident, we all agreed, that Calypso had been right.  It had been Tobias and none other whose evil eye had sent her so breathless back to me, waiting in the shadow of the woods; and it was the same evil eye that had fallen vulture-like on her golden doubloon exposed on Sweeney’s counter.