'cept one.'" I quoted. "What do you mean by that?"
My friend expectorated, looking off into the night soberly a moment.
"Guess I didn't mean nuthin'," said he, presently. "When I set out t' say suthin', don't never know where I 'm goin' t' land. Good deal luk settin' sail without a compass. Thet 's one reason I don't never say much 'fore women."
Our good host hurried the lagging hours with many a tale of the river and that island we were soon to visit, once the refuge of Tadusac, the old river pirate, so he told us, with a cave now haunted by some ghost. We started for the shore near ten o'clock, the innkeeper leading us with a lantern, its light flickering in a west wind. The sky was cloudy, the night dark. Our host lent us the lantern, kindly offering to build a bonfire on the beach at eleven, to light us home.
"Careful, boys," said the innkeeper, as we got aboard. "Aim straight fer th' head o' th' island, Can't ye see it—right over yer heads there? 'Member, they 's awful rough water below."
We pushed off, D'ri leading. I could see
