All at once they made way for a quick dark-looking body, with tiny half grey corkscrew ringlets hanging round under his fur cap, not only at the sides but all over his forehead. It was a man evidently, but he looked like an elderly sharp-eyed wrinkled-faced woman, as he pushed a big lad aside, and putting his arms on the bulwark, stared down at us.
“Vell, lad, vot you vant?” he said.
“Hungry, sir. Blown off the shore, sir,” I cried. “We can’t row back. Can you understand? No parly vous.”
“Bah, stupe, thick, headblock, who ask you parlez-vous? I am England much, and speak him abondomment. How you do thank you, quite vell?”
“No, sir; we’re starving, and cold and—and—and—tell him Big, I can’t.”
I was done for. I could not keep it back, though I had said to myself Bob Chowne was a weak coward, and, dropping on the thwart, I let my face go down in my hands, and tried to keep back my emotion.
“Ah, you bigs boys, you speak me,” I heard the French skipper say. “How you come from? Come, call yourself.”
“Uggleston, of the Gap,” said Bigley, as boldly as he could. “Blown off shore, sir, in the squall.”
“Aha! Hey, hey? Ugglees-tone. Ma foi, you Monsieur Jonas Ugglees-tone?”
“No, sir; I am his son,” said Bigley.