“Hullo!” he said suddenly: “Frenchman.”
“Eh? Where?” said Daygo quickly.
“Right away, miles off the North Point.”
The old man took the glass, altered the focus again, and took a long, searching look.
“Bah!” he exclaimed; “that’s not a Frenchman, my lads,” and he closed the glass with a smart crack. “I say, lookye here.”
He led the way to the door, grinning tremendously, and pointed in to where, hanging over the fireplace, was the piece of well-tarred rope, hanging by a loop made of fishing line.
“Ready when wanted—eh?”
The boys laughed and went off soon after towards home.
“Five shillings worse off,” said Mike, when they parted for the night; “but I’m glad we got out of all that so easily.—I say, Cinder!”
“Well?”