From his voice it was easy to see he was a Frenchman.
Hastily stripping himself, he went to the gangway, and standing upon the steps, took a header into the oily brine. He did not come up.
“Sacre nom de Dieu!” cried a sailor. “Young Surcouf be no risen. Ah! He has been down ze long time. Ah! Let us lower ze boat and find heem.”
“Voilà! Voilà!” cried another. “He ees drowned!”
Plunkety, plunk, splash! went a boat over the side, and in a moment more, a half dozen sailors were eagerly looking into the deep, blue wash of the ocean.
“He no there. I will dive for heem,” cried out the fellow who had first spoken, and, leaping from the boat, he disappeared from view.
In a few moments he re-appeared, drawing the body of the first diver with him. It was apparently helpless. The prostrate sailor was lifted to the deck; rubbed, worked over, scrubbed,—but no signs of life were there.
Meanwhile, a Portuguese Lieutenant, who was pacing the poop, appeared to be much pleased at what took place.
“The fellow’s dead! The beggar’s done for,—sure. Overboard with the rascal! To the waves with the dead ’un!”
“Give us a few more moments,” cried the sailors. “He will come to!”