“What the devil ails you, Davy?” he cried.  “If it is an elopement, of course I won’t press you.  I’m hanged if I’ll make a third.”

“It is no elopement,” I retorted, my face growing hot in spite of myself.

“Then I go with you,” said he, “for I vow you need taking care of.  You can’t put me off, I say.  But never in my life have I had such a reception, and from my own first cousin, too.”

I was in a quandary, so totally unforeseen was this situation.  And then a glimmer of hope came to me that perhaps his mother and Riddle might not be in St. Louis after all.  I recalled the conversation in the cabin, and reflected that this wayward pair had stranded on so many beaches, had drifted off again on so many tides, that one place could scarce hold them long.  Perchance they had sunk,—­who could tell?  I turned to Nick, who stood watching me.

“It was not that I did not want you,” I said, “you must believe that.  I have wanted you ever since that night long ago when I slipped out of your bed and ran away.  I am going first to St. Louis and then to New Orleans on a mission of much delicacy, a mission that requires discretion and secrecy.  You may come, with all my heart, with one condition only—­that you do not ask my business.”

“Done!” cried Nick.  “Davy, I was always sure of you; you are the one fixed quantity in my life.  To St. Louis, eh, and to New Orleans?  Egad, what havoc we’ll make among the Creole girls.  May I bring my nigger?  He’ll do things for you too.”

“By all means,” said I, laughing, “only hurry.”

“I’ll run to the inn,” said Nick, “and be back in ten minutes.”  He got as far as the door, slapped his thigh, and looked back.  “Davy, we may run across—­”

“Who?” I asked, with a catch of my breath.

“Harry Riddle,” he answered; “and if so, may God have mercy on his soul!”

He ran down the path, the gate clicked, and I heard him whistling in the street on his way to the inn.

After dinner we rode down to the ferry, Nick on the thoroughbred which had beat Mr. Jackson’s horse, and his man, Benjy, on a scraggly pony behind.  Benjy was a small, black negro with a very squat nose, alert and talkative save when Nick turned on him.  Benjy had been born at Temple Bow; he worshipped his master and all that pertained to him, and he showered upon me all the respect and attention that was due to a member of the Temple family.  For this I was very grateful.  It would have been an easier journey had we taken a boat down to Fort Massac, but such a proceeding might have drawn too much attention to our expedition.  I have no space to describe that trip overland, which reminded me at every stage of the march against Kaskaskia, the woods, the chocolate streams, the coffee-colored swamps flecked with dead leaves,—­and at length the prairies, the grass not waist-high now, but young and tender, giving forth the acrid smell of spring.  Nick was delighted.  He made me recount every detail of my trials as a drummer boy, or kept me in continuous spells of laughter over his own escapades.  In short, I began to realize that we were as near to each other as though we had never been parted.