CHAPTER XII—HOW THE “RANGER” TOOK THE “DRAKE”
Four months slip by; it is April, and the idle Ranger rides in the harbor of Brest. Morose, sore with inactivity, Captain Paul Jones seeks out Doctor Franklin at the philosopher’s house in Passy.
“This lying by rusts me,” Captain Paul Jones is saying as he and Doctor Franklin have a turn in the garden. The latter likes the thin French sunshine, and gets as much of it as he may. “Yes, it rusts me—fills me with despair!”
“What would you do, then?” asks Doctor Franklin, his coarse, shrewd face quickening into interest. “Have you a cruise mapped out?”
“Now I thought, if you’ve no objections, I’d just poke the Ranger’s nose into the Irish Sea, and take a look at Whitehaven. You know I was born by the Solway, and the coast I speak of is an old acquaintance.”
“I see no objection, Captain, save the smallness of your ship.”
“That is easily answered; for I give you my word, Doctor, the little Ranger can sail round any English ship on the home station. I shall be safe, no fear; for what I can’t whip I can run from.”
“Have you spoken to my brother commissioners?”