Monday came, clear and blue and stifling. The waves of hot air
danced on the sands and adown the one street merrily. Glassily
calm lay the Pontchartrain, heavily still hung the atmosphere.
Madame Alvarez cast an inquiring glance toward the sky.
Grandpere Colomes chuckled. He had not lived on the shores of
the treacherous Lake Pontchartrain for nothing. He knew its
every mood, its petulances and passions; he knew this glassy
warmth and what it meant. Chuckling again and again, he stepped
to the gallery and looked out over the lake, and at the pier,
where lay the boats rocking and idly tugging at their moorings.
La Juanita in her rose-scented room tied the pink ribbons on her
dainty frock, and fastened cloth of gold roses at her lithe
waist.
It was said that just before the crack of the pistol La Juanita's
tiny hand lay in Mercer's, and that he bent his head, and
whispered softly, so that the surrounding crowd could not hear,--
"Juanita mine, if I win, you will?"
"Oui, mon Mercere, eef you win."
In another instant the white wings were off scudding before the
rising breeze, dipping their glossy boat-sides into the clear
water, straining their cordage in their tense efforts to reach
the stake boats. Mandeville indiscriminately distributed itself
on piers, large and small, bath-house tops, trees, and craft of
all kinds, from pirogue, dory, and pine-raft to pretentious
cat-boat and shell-schooner.
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