Part 37 (1/2)
”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?”