The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

had arrived and he did not move them now, “what’re they all fixed up like that fur?”
    “It’s a picture for a story,” she explained. “A story about Haiti in the old days—”
    “Ah reckon Ah know,” he nodded eagerly, his face suddenly alight. “That’s wheah th’ blacks kilt th’ French back in history times. Ah got me a book ’bout it. A book in handwritin’, not printin’. Père Armand larned me to read it.”
    Judson Holmes’ companion moved forward. “A book in handwriting,” he said slowly. “Could that possibly mean a diary?”
    Charity was wiping her hands on a paint rag. “It might. New Orleans was a port of refuge for a great many of the French who fled the island during the slave uprising. It is not impossible.”
    “I’ve got to see it! Here, boy, what’s your name?” He pounced upon Jeems. “Can you get that book here this afternoon?”
    Jeems drew back. “Ah ain’t gonna bring no book heah. That’s mine an’ you ain’t gonna set eye on it!” With that parting shot he was gone.
    “But—but—” protested the other, “I’ve got to see it. Why, such a find might be priceless.”
    Mr. Holmes laughed. “Curb your hunting instincts for once, Creighton. You can’t handle a swamper that way. Let’s go and see Charity’s masterpiece instead.”
    “I don’t remember having asked you to,” she observed.
    “Oh, see here now, wasn’t I the one who got you this commission? And Creighton here is that strange animal known as a publisher’s scout. And publishers sometimes desire the services of illustrators, so you had better impress Creighton as soon as possible. Well,” he looked at the picture, “you have done it!”
    Even Creighton, who had been inclined to stare back over his shoulder at the point where Jeems disappeared, now gave it more than half his attention.
    “Is that for Drums of Doom ?” he asked becoming suddenly crisp and professional.
    “Yes.”
    “Might do for the jacket of the book. Have Mr. Richards see this. Marvelous types, where did you get them?” he continued, looking from the canvas to Ricky and Val.
    “Oh, I am sorry. Miss Ralestone, may I present Mr. Creighton, and Mr. Holmes, both of New York. And this,” she smiled at Val, “is Mr. Valerius Ralestone, the brother of the owner of this plantation. The family, I believe, has lived here for about two hundred and fifty years.”
    Creighton’s manner became a shade less brusque as he took the hand Ricky held out to him. “I might have known that no professional could get that look,” he said.
    “Then this isn’t your place?” Mr. Holmes said to Charity after he had greeted the Ralestones.
    “Mine? Goodness no! I rent the old overseer’s house. Pirate’s Haven is Ralestone property.”
    “Pirate’s Haven.” Judson Holmes’ infectious grin reappeared. “A rather suggestive name.”
    “The builder intended to name it ‘King’s Acres’ because it was a royal grant,” Val informed him. “But he was a pirate, so the other name was given it by the country folk and he adopted it. And he was right in doing so because there were other freebooters in the family after his time.”
    “Yes, we are even equipped with a pirate ghost,” contributed Ricky with a mischievous glance in her brother’s direction.
    Holmes fanned himself with his hat. “So romance isn’t dead after all. Well, Charity, shall we stay—in town I mean?”
    “Why?” a thin line appeared between her eyes as if she had little liking for such a plan.
    “Well, Creighton is here on the track of a mysterious new writer who is threatening to produce a second Gone with the Wind . And I—well, I like the climate.”
    “We’ll see,” muttered Charity.
    CHAPTER X
    Into the Swamp
    In spite of the fact that they received but lukewarm encouragement from Charity, both Holmes and Creighton lingered on in New Orleans. Mr. Creighton made several attempts to get in touch with Jeems, whom he seemed to suspect of concealing vast literary treasures. And he spent one hot morning going through the trunk of papers which the Ralestones had found in the storage-room. Ricky commented upon the fact that being a publisher’s scout was almost like being an antique buyer.
    Holmes was a perfect foil for his laboring friend. He lounged away his days draped across the settee on Charity’s gallery or sitting down on the bayou levee—after she had chased him away—pitching pebbles into the water. He told all of them that it was