Devon Boys Part 37

"Yes, sir; I belong to him. Will you give us something to eat?"

"Aha! You Engleesh boys, big garcon, always hungries. Vais; come aboard my sheeps. Not like your papa--oh, no. I know him mosh, very mosh. Know you papa, votr' pere, mon garcon. Come-you-up-you-come."

He said it all as if it were one word, so curiously that it seemed to help me to get rid of my weakness, and I was about to stand up in the boat when the French skipper said to Bigley:

"Look you! Aha. Boy ahoy you. What sheep you fader?"

"Do you mean what's the name of my father's lugger, sir?"

"Yes; you fater luggair--cha.s.se maree. I say so. Vat you call. Heece nem?"

"The _Saucy La.s.s_, sir."

He leaned over and looked at the stern of the boat and nodded his head.

"Yais, him's olright. Ze _Saucila.s.s_. Come you up--you come, boys.

All you. Faites."

This last was to one of the men, who, as we climbed over the side of the French lugger, descended into our boat, and made her fast by the painter to the stern.

The skipper shook hands with us all, and smiled at us and patted our shoulders.

"Pauvres garcons!" he said. "You been much blow away ce mornings, eh?"

"No, sir, last night," said Bigley.

"How you say? You la.s.s night dites, mon garcon."

"We were fis.h.i.+ng, sir, and the squall came, and we've been out all night."

"Brrrr!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the French skipper, shrugging his shoulders and making a face, then seizing me he dragged me to a hole away in the stern deck, and pushed me down into quite a snug little cabin with a glowing stove.

"Come--venez. All you come," he cried, and he thrust the others down and followed quickly.

"Pauvres garcons! Warm you my fire. Chauffez vous. Good you eat bread? Good you drink bran-dee vis vater? Not good for boy sometime, mais good now."

He kept on chattering to us, half in English, half in French; and as he spoke he cut for us great pieces of bread and Devon b.u.t.ter, evidently freshly taken on board that day. Next he took a large brown bottle from a locker, and mixed in a heavy, clumsy gla.s.s a stiff jorum of brandy with water from a kettle on the stove. Into this gla.s.s he put plenty of Bristol brown sugar, and made us all drink heartily in turn, so as to empty the gla.s.s, when he filled it again.

"It is--c'est bon--good phee-seek--make you no enrhumee--you no have colds. No. Eat, boys. Aha! You warm yourselves. Hey?"

We thanked him, for the glowing stove, the sheltered cabin, the hot brandy and water, and the soft new bread and b.u.t.ter, seemed to give us all new life. The warm blood ran through our veins, and our clothes soon ceased to steam. The French skipper, who had, as we rowed to the side of the lugger, looked about as unpleasant and villainous a being as it was possible to meet, now seemed quite a good genius, and whatever his failings or the nature of his business, he certainly appeared to be deriving real pleasure from his task of restoring the three half-perished lads who had appealed to him for help, and the more we ate, the more he rubbed his hands together and laughed.

"How zey feroce like ze volf, eh? How zey are very mosh hunger. Eat you, my young vrens. Eat you, my young son of ze Jonas Ugglee-stone. I know you fader. He is mon ami. Aha! I drink your helse all of you varey."

He poured himself out a little dram of the spirit and tossed it off.

For a good half hour he devoted himself to us, making us eat, stoking the little stove, and giving us blankets and rough coats to wear to get us warm again. After that he turned to Bigley and laid his arms upon his shoulders, drooping his hands behind, and throwing back his head as he looked him in the face.

"You like me make my sheep to you hous, yais?"

"Take us home, sir. Oh, if you please," cried Bigley.

"Good--c'est bon--my frien. I make my sheep take you. Lay off, you say, and you land in your leettle boats. My faith, yes! And you tell you fader the Capitaine Apollo Gualtiere--he p.r.o.nounced his surname as if it was Goo-awl-tee-yairrrre--make him present of hees sone, and hees young friens. Brave boys. Ha, ha!"

He nodded to us all in turn, and smiled as he gave us each a friendly rap on the chest with the back of his hand.

"Now you warm mosh more my stove, and I go on le pont to make my sheep."

"But do you know the Gap, sir?" said Bigley eagerly.

"Do I know ze Gahp? Aha! Ho, ho! Do I not know ze Gahp vis him eye shut? Peep! Eh? Aha! And every ozer place chez ze cote. Do I evaire make my sheep off ze Gahp to de leettl business--des affaires vis monsieur votre pere? Aha! Oh, no, nod-a-dalls."

He gave his nose a great many little taps with his right forefinger as he spoke, and ended by winking both his eyes a great many times, with the effect that the gold rings in his ears danced, and then he went up the little ladder through the hatchway, to stand half out for a few minutes giving orders, while we had a good look at the lower part of his person, which was clothed in what would have been a stiff canvas petticoat, had it not been sewn up between his legs, so as to turn it into the fas.h.i.+on of a pair of trousers, worn over a pair of heavy fishermen's boots.

Then he went up the rest of the way, and let in more light and air, while the motion of the vessel plainly told us that her course had been altered.

"Well," said Bob Chowne, speaking now for the first time, "he's the rummest looking beggar I ever saw. Looks as if you might cut him up and make monkeys out of the stuff."

"Well, of all the ungrateful--"

I began a sentence, but Bob cut me short.

"I'm not ungrateful," he said sharply; "and I'm getting nice and warm now; but what does a man want to wear ear-rings for like a girl, and curl up his hair in little greasy ringlets, that look as if they'd been twisted round pipes, and--I say, boys, did you see his breeches?"

I nodded rather grimly.

"And his boots, old Big; did you see his boots?"

"Yes, they looked good water-tighters," said Bigley quietly, and he seemed now to have settled down into his regular old fas.h.i.+on, while Bob Chowne was getting saucy.

"And then his hands! Did you see his hands?" continued Bob. "I thought at first I could not eat the bread and b.u.t.ter he had touched. I don't believe he ever washes them."

"Why, he had quite small brown hands," said Bigley. "Mine are ever so much larger."

"Yes, but how dirty they were!"

"It was only tar," said Bigley. "He has been hauling new ropes. Look, some came off on my hand when he had hold of it."

"I don't care, I say it was dirt," said Bob obstinately. "He's a Frenchman, and Frenchmen are all alike--nasty, dirty-looking beggars."

"Well, I thought as he brought us down in the cabin here, and gave us that warm drink and the bread and b.u.t.ter, what a pity it was that French and English should ever fight and kill one another."

"Yah! Hark at him, Sep Duncan," cried Bob. "There's a sentimental, unnatural chap. What do you say?"

"Oh, I only say what a difference there is between Bob Chowne now and Bob Chowne when he lay down in the bottom of the boat last night, and howled when old Big made him get up and row."

"You want me to hit you, Sep Duncan?"

"No," I said.