“A small world, Jacquard! How came you to leave Rochelle?”
“Oh, Monsieur,” said the other, wagging his head, “times are not what they have been. The sea has called me again. My flesh dried upon my bones. I could not stay longer ashore. And a profitable venture—a profitable venture—”
“Honest, Jacquard! Where do ye go?”
“Monsieur, the Saucy Sally is no proper ship for you.” He moved his head with a curious solemnity from side to side. “No place for you—we go a long voyage, monsieur,” and he broke off abruptly. “But tell me how came you in such straits as these?” Then Monsieur Mornay told Jacquard briefly of the fight in the Fleece Tavern and of their escape, and after this Cornbury learned how Jacquard had been the Chevalier Mornay’s cockswain upon the Dieu Merci in the Marine of France. But through it all Jacquard preserved a solemn and puzzled expression, which struggled curiously with his look of delight at the sight of Mornay. At last, unable longer to contain himself, he glanced stealthily around to where the men were swinging their hammocks, and said, in a kind of shouting whisper:
“Monsieur, you cannot stay upon the Saucy Sally. To-morrow, before we leave the Channel, you must get ashore.”
Mornay looked curiously at the man. “Why, Jacquard! You, too? Your Sally is none so hospitable a lass, after all. Upon my faith, ’tis too bad in an old shipmate. I had but just coaxed myself into a desire to stay, and—here—”
Jacquard’s face was a study in perplexities. He drew the fugitives to a small room, or closet. When the door was shut he sat down, his mouth and face writhing with the import of the information he could not bring himself to convey.
“Ods-life, man,” growled Cornbury, “have ye the twitches? Speak out!”
“Monsieur le Chevalier,” said Jacquard, “’tis no cruise for you. We go to the Havana and Maracaibo and—” He hesitated again.
“Out with it before ye get in irons. Ye hang in the wind like a fluttering maid.”