“You shall see,” said Paul, solemnly; “for though I have never shown it since, nor have I ever told the story before, here it is.”
With these words he drew from his bosom a small square volume, bound in vellum, and fastened by a clasp; lettered on the cover, “Signals of the Channel Fleet.”
This was the secret of honest Paul's life; and as he turned over the leaves, he expatiated with eloquent delight on the various British emblems which were represented there, in all their brilliant coloring.
“That double streak of yellow on the black is to make all sail, Comrades,” said he. “Whenever they see us standing out to sea you may remark that signal flying.”
“And what is this large blue flag here, with all the colored bars across it?” said one.
“Ay,” cried another, “they're very fond of that ensign; what can it be?”
“Close action,” growled out Paul, sullenly, who didn't fancy even the reflective praise this question implied to the hated rival.
“Sacrebleu!” said a third, “they've no other to announce a victory. Look here; it is the same flag for both.”
Paul shut up the book at this, with a muttered curse, which might have been intended either for his comrades or the English, or both together, and the whole party became suddenly silent.
It was now that the landlord's tact became conspicuous; for instead of any condoling expressions on what might have been deemed the unsuccessful result of Paul's career, he affected to think that the brave seaman was more to be envied for the possession of that volume than if he walked the deck an admiral of France.