"It's the luck," said he. "I never had none."
"No," said I, "it is not that. So far as luck goes, you are lucky you
are alive. Little do you know our desperate band. Little do you know
you have escaped the wrath of Lafitte, of L'Olonnois, of Black Bart.
Luck! No, that is not why you failed."
"What then?" he demanded, still covetous, albeit rueful, too, at what
he vaguely knew was lost opportunity.
"It was because you did not play the part of a clammer naturally and
nobly," I replied. "My friend, I counsel you to read Epictetus--and
while you are at that," I added, "I suggest you read also that other
classic, the one known as The Pirate's Own Book."
So saying, since he stood stupefied, and really not seeing my hand,
which I reached out to him in farewell, I called to Partial, and
followed by the two stern and relentless figures, made our way back to
the spot where the good ship Sea Rover lay straining at her hawser.
"What ho! messmates!" I cried. "Fortune has been kind to our bold
band this day. We have taken large booty. Let us up anchor and set
sail. Before yon sun has sunk into the deep we shall be far away, and
our swift craft is able to shake off all pursuit."
"Whither away, Black Bart,--Captain, I mean!" said Jean Lafitte (and I
blushed at this title and this hard-won rank, as one of the proudest
of my swiftly-following accomplishments in happiness).
"Spang! to the Spanish Main," was my reply.
A moment later, the waves were rippling merrily along the sides of the
Sea Rover as she headed out boldly into the high seas.