There was nothing there to interest me, and I crossed a narrow space of grass to where a broken picket fence was visible amid a fringe of weeds.  No description can fitly picture the gloomy desolation surrounding that ramshackle place.  It got upon the nerves, the decay, the neglect apparent on every side.  The very silence seemed depressing.  Evidently this fence, now a mere ruin, had once served to protect a garden plot.  But I saw merely a tangled mass of wild vegetation, so thick and high as to obstruct the view.  Narrow footpaths branched in either direction, and I chose to follow the one to the right, thinking thus to skirt the fence, and learn what was beyond, before approaching the negro cabins on the opposite side.  To my surprise, I found myself suddenly standing on the bank of a narrow bayou, the water clear, yet apparently motionless, the opposite shore heavily timbered.  Owing to a sharp curve I could see scarcely a hundred yards in either direction, yet close in beside the shore a light boat was skimming over the gray water.  Even as I gazed, the fellow plying the paddle saw me, and waved his hand.  In another moment the bow grounded on the bank and its occupant came stumbling up the slight declivity.

He was a medium-sized, wiry-looking fellow, with olive skin and small mustache, dressed in brown corduroy, a colored handkerchief wound about his head in lieu of a hat.  As he came to the level where I stood, he stopped suddenly, staring into my face.

“Sacre!  I thought eet vas Coombs.  Who are you, M’sieur?”

“I came in last night,” I replied evasively, “and was just looking about a bit.”

“So! you know Coombs, hey?”

“I ’ve met him—­yes.”

The black eyes searched my face, and I noted his right hand touch the hilt of a knife in his belt.

“What water is this?” I asked, ignoring his action, “bayou?”

“Oui, M’sieur.”

“Are we near the sea?”

“Twenty-seex mile.  You not know where you are?  ’Tis odd you not know, M’sieur.”

I laughed, enjoying his bewilderment, yet not realizing how to turn it to better account.

“Oh, no.  I came by train in the night, and am a little hazy as to location.  You live about here?”

“Som’time; then off again—­sailor.”

I nodded to prove I understood, but the man stopped uneasily.

“Whare Coombs?  You know, M’sieur?”

“No, I don’t,” I acknowledged.  “Asleep in his cabin likely.”

The Creole, for such he undoubtedly was, made a swift resolve.

“’Tis like, M’sieur.  I find out, maybe you come too!”