“Only to Havre, monsieur.”
“Havre!” repeated the lieutenant, with surprise; “why, are we so close to Havre?”
Bill, at this time, was eyeing the eggs and fowls with a ravenous eye. After again thanking the girl, the lieutenant moved on.
“So,” said our hero, “we are only three or four miles from Havre after all; too close to be pleasant.”
The fact is, they had merely doubled the east Head, where the land took a curve inwards. After a short walk they approached the village, which, in truth, consisted of a few small cottages and a large and comfortable farm-house and buildings. A lad pointed to the large house as Dame Moret’s, when asked. In the front were congregated several cows, and a girl milking them; sundry other farm-animals, in the shape of turkeys and fowls, which a very nice and respectable-looking old woman was carefully feeding, keeping away the old birds that the young might have fair play.
The dame looked up as Lieutenant Thornton approached, which enabled a sage-looking old turkey-cock to walk off with the entire of a large barley-cake she was breaking up for the young birds.
“Ma foi!” exclaimed the old dame, making a grab at his tail, “vous êtes un grand voleur, Maitre Jacques.”
Bill thought the barley-cake much too good for “Maitre Jacques,” so he grabbed at him and got the cake, which proceeding created an immense row among the turkeys; but Bill very quietly commenced demolishing the cake, looking as innocent as a child.
“Mon Dieu,” said the dame, laughing, “you are worse than Maitre Jacques; had you no breakfast, pauvre homme?”
“No, dame,” said our hero, laughing, and trying to be heard in the din that ensued amongst the poultry. “Your good daughter recommended us to come here, as there is no cabaret in this village. We have been landed from an English ship. We have money to pay you for what you give us.”