“What say, sare, you Monsieur Jonas Ugglees-tone, you b’long?”
“Yes, sir; I belong to him. Will you give us something to eat?”
“Aha! You Engleesh boys, big garçon, always hungries. Vais; come aboard my sheeps. Not like your papa—oh, no. I know him mosh, very mosh. Know you papa, votr’ père, mon garçon. Come-you-up-you-come.”
He said it all as if it were one word, so curiously that it seemed to help me to get rid of my weakness, and I was about to stand up in the boat when the French skipper said to Bigley:
“Look you! Aha. Boy ahoy you. What sheep you fader?”
“Do you mean what’s the name of my father’s lugger, sir?”
“Yes; you fater luggair—chasse marée. I say so. Vat you call. Heece nem?”
“The Saucy Lass, sir.”
He leaned over and looked at the stern of the boat and nodded his head.
“Yais, him’s olright. Ze Saucilass. Come you up—you come, boys. All you. Faites.”