“I know that in France,” Billy assured Claire, “marriages are arranged by the parents; but in my country they are arranged in heaven.  And who are we to disregard the edicts of heaven?  Ages and ages ago, before the flood, before Napoleon, even before old Paillard with his four children, it was arranged in heaven that you were to marry me.  So, what little plans your good mother may make don’t cut enough ice to cool a green mint.  Now, we can’t try to get married here,” continued Billy, “without your mother and Paillard knowing it.  In this town as many people have to sign the marriage contract as signed our Declaration of Independence:  all the civil authorities, all the clergy, all the relatives; if every man in the telephone book isn’t a witness, the marriage doesn’t ‘take.’  So, we must elope!”

Having been brought up in a convent, where she was taught to obey her mother and forbidden to think of marriage, Claire was naturally delighted with the idea of an elopement.

“To where will we elope to?” she demanded.  Her English, as she learned it from Billy, was sometimes confusing.

“To New York,” said Billy.  “On the voyage there I will put you in charge of the stewardess and the captain; and there isn’t a captain on the Royal Dutch or the Atlas that hasn’t known you since you were a baby.  And as soon as we dock we’ll drive straight to the city hall for a license and the mayor himself will marry us.  Then I’ll get back my old job from the Wilmot folks and we’ll live happy ever after!”

“In New York, also,” asked Claire proudly, “are you directeur of the electric lights?”

“On Broadway alone,” Billy explained reprovingly, “there is one sign that uses more bulbs than there are in the whole of Hayti!”

“New York is a large town!” exclaimed Claire.

“It’s a large sign,” corrected Billy.  “But,” he pointed out, “with no money we’ll never see it.  So to-morrow I’m going to make a social call on Grandpa Ham and demand my ten thousand francs.”

Claire grasped his arm.

“Be careful,” she pleaded.  “Remember the chicken soup.  If he offers you the champagne, refuse it!”

“He won’t offer me the champagne,” Billy assured her.  “It won’t be that kind of a call.”

Billy left the Cafe Ducrot and made his way to the water-front.  He was expecting some electrical supplies by the Prinz der Nederlanden, and she had already come to anchor.

He was late, and save for a group of his countrymen, who with the customs officials were having troubles of their own, the customs shed was all but deserted.  Billy saw his freight cleared and was going away when one of those in trouble signalled for assistance.

He was a good-looking young man in a Panama hat and his manner seemed to take it for granted that Billy knew who he was.

“They want us to pay duty on our trunks,” he explained, “and we want to leave them in bond.  We’ll be here only until to-night, when we’re going on down the coast to Santo Domingo.  But we don’t speak French, and we can’t make them understand that.”