“Ha, it is Davy,” he cried, “but not the sem lil drummer boy who would not come into my store.  Reech lawyer now,—­I hear you make much money now, Davy.”

“Congress money?” I said.

Monsieur Vigo threw out his hands, and laughed exactly as he had done in his log store at Kaskaskia.

“Congress have never repay me one sou,” said Monsieur Vigo, making a face.  “I have try—­I have talk—­I have represent—­it is no good.  Davy, it is your fault.  You tell me tek dat money.  You call dat finance?”

“David,” said Mr. Marshall, sharply, “what the devil is this I hear of your carrying a torch in a Jacobin procession?”

“You may put it down to liquor, Mr. Marshall,” I answered.

“Then you must have had a cask, egad,” said Mr. Marshall, “for I never saw you drunk.”

I laughed.

“I shall not attempt to explain it, sir,” I answered.

“You must not allow your drum to drag you into bad company again,” said he, and resumed his conversation.  As I suspected, it was a vigorous condemnation of General Clark and his new expedition.  I expressed my belief that the government did not regard it seriously, and would forbid the enterprise at the proper time.

“You are right, sir,” said Mr. Marshall, bringing down his fist on the table.  “I have private advices from Philadelphia that the President’s consideration for Governor Shelby is worn out, and that he will issue a proclamation within the next few days warning all citizens at their peril from any connection with the pirates.”

I laughed.

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Marshall,” said I, “Citizen Genet has been liberal with nothing except commissions, and they have neither money nor men.”

“The rascals have all left town,” said Mr. Marshall.  “Citizen Quartermaster Depeau, their local financier, has gone back to his store at Knob Licks.  The Sieur de St. Gre and a Mr. Temple, as doubtless you know, have gone to New Orleans.  And the most mysterious and therefore the most dangerous of the lot, Citizen Gignoux, has vanished like an evil spirit.  It is commonly supposed that he, too, has gone down the river.  You may see him, Vigo,” said Mr. Marshall, turning to the trader; “he is a little man with a big nose and grizzled chestnut eyebrows.”

“Ah, I know a lil ’bout him,” said Monsieur Vigo; “he was on my boat two days ago, asking me questions.”

“The devil he was!” said Mr. Marshall.

I had another disquieting night, and by the morning I had made up my mind.  The sun was glinting on the placid waters of the river when I made my way down to the bank, to a great ten-oared keel boat that lay on the Bear Grass, with its square sail furled.  An awning was stretched over the deck, and at a walnut table covered with papers sat Monsieur Vigo, smoking his morning pipe.

“Davy,” said he, “you have come a la bonne heure.  At ten I depart for New Orleans.”  He sighed.  “It is so long voyage,” he added, “and so lonely one.  Sometime I have the good fortune to pick up a companion, but not to-day.”