“Oh, you don’t understand,” I explained; “he’s in no hurry. He’s a man of leisure; aren’t you, Davies?”
“What?” said Davies.
I translated my cruel question.
“Yes,” said Davies, with simple pathos.
“If I have to leave him I shan’t be missed—as an able seaman, at least. He’ll just potter on down the islands, running aground and kedging-off, and arrive about Christmas.”
“Or take the first fair gale to Dover,” laughed the Commander.
“Or that. So, you see, we’re in no hurry; and we never make plans. And as for a passage to England straight, I’m not such a coward as I was at first, but I draw the line at that.”
“You’re a curious pair of shipmates; what’s your point of view, Herr Davies?”
“I like this coast,” said Davies. “And—we want to shoot some ducks.” He was nervous, and forgot himself. I had already satirised our sporting armament and exploits, and hoped the subject was disposed of. Ducks were pretexts, and might lead to complications. I particularly wanted a free hand.
“As to wild fowl,” said our friend, “I would like to give you gentlemen some advice. There are plenty to be got, now that autumn weather has set in (you wouldn’t have got a shot in September, Herr Davies; I remember your asking about them when I saw you last). And even now it’s early for amateurs. In hard winter weather a child can pick them up; but they’re wild still, and want crafty hunting. You want a local punt, and above all a local man (you could stow him in your fo’c’sle), and to go to work seriously. Now, if you really wish for sport, I could help you. I could get you a trustworthy——”