"A bundle, Father; that under his head, and nothing more."
"Did he speak to you, or ask any questions?"
"Only at what time we should reach Houston, and if the 'White Hart' was near the Quay?"
"That will do," said the Padre, handing the lantern to the boy.
That will do! thought I also. Master Chico, if you know me, I know _you_ as well!
The game was now begun between us,--at least, so I felt it. I lay watching my adversary, who slowly paced backwards and forwards, stopping now and then to peep into the boat, and doubtless conning over in his own mind his plan of attack.
We were to land some passengers and take in some wood at a little place called Fork Island; and here I was half determined within myself that my voyage should end. That "Chico" had discovered me, was clear, the Padre could be no other than him; and that he would inevitably hunt me down at Austin was no less evident. Now, discovery and "lynching" were but links of the same chain; and I had no fancy to figure as "No. 2" in Hall's Court!
The silence on the deck soon showed that most of the passengers had gone below, and, so far as I could see in the uncertain light, "Chico" with them. I arose, therefore, from my hard couch to take a little exercise, which my cramped limbs stood in need of. A light drizzling rain had begun to fall, which made the deck slippery and uncomfortable, and so I took my stand at the door of the cook's galley, into which two or three of the crew had sought refuge.
As the rain fell the fog thickened, so that, standing close in to shore, the skipper slackened our speed, till at last we barely moved through the water. Not aware of the reason, I asked one of the sailors for an explanation.
"It's the dirty weather, I reckon," said he, sulky at being questioned.
"Impatient, I suppose, to get the journey over, my young friend?" said a low, silky voice, which at once reminded me of that I had already heard when I lay in the boat. I turned, and it was the Padre, who, with an umbrella over him, was standing beside me.
"I 'm not much of a sailor, Father," replied I, saluting him respectfully as I spoke.
"More accustomed to the saddle than the poop-deck?" said he, smiling blandly.
I nodded assent, and he went on with some passing generalities about sea and land life,--mere skirmishing, as I saw, to invite conversation.