“No, no, man! Can't you see I only want your help? I'll pay you for it?”
“Eh? What? And dressed like a swell, too———” The sailor had relapsed into English. He now moved into the shadow and leaned against the railing of the pedestal.
“Well,” he said, returning to his atrocious French; “and what is it you want?”
“I want to get away from here——”
“Aha! Stowaway! Want me to hide you? Been up to something, I suppose. Stuck a knife into somebody, eh? Just like these foreigners! And where might you be wanting to go? Not to the police station, I fancy?”
He laughed in his tipsy way, and winked one eye.
“What vessel do you belong to?”
“Carlotta—Leghorn to Buenos Ayres; shipping oil one way and hides the other. She's over there”—pointing in the direction of the breakwater—“beastly old hulk!”
“Buenos Ayres—yes! Can you hide me anywhere on board?”
“How much can you give?”