But Menoul was a bold and experienced sailor.
While Gaston remained concealed in a farm-house at Camargue, Menoul went to Marseilles, and that very evening discovered, from some of his sailor friends, that a three-masted American vessel was in the roadstead, whose commander, Captain Warth, a not over-scrupulous Yankee, would be glad to welcome on board an able-bodied man who would be of assistance to him at sea.
After visiting the vessel, and finding, during a conversation over a glass of rum with the captain, that he was quite willing to take a sailor without disturbing himself about his antecedents, Menoul returned to Gaston.
“Left to my own choice, monsieur,” he said, “I should have settled this matter on the spot; but you might object to it.”
“What suits you, suits me,” interrupted Gaston.
“You see, the fact is, you will be obliged to work very hard. A sailor’s life is not boy’s play. You will not find much pleasure in it. And I must confess that the ship’s company is not the most moral one I ever saw. You never would imagine yourself in a Christian company. And the captain is a regular swaggering bully.”
“I have no choice,” said Gaston. “Let us go on board at once.”
Old Menoul’s suspicions were correct.
Before Gaston had been on board the Tom Jones forty-eight hours, he saw that chance had cast him among a collection of the most depraved bandits and cut-throats.
The vessel, which seemed to have recruited at all points of the compass, possessed a crew composed of every variety of thievish knaves; each country had contributed a specimen.