This last was to one of the men, who, as we climbed over the side of the French lugger, descended into our boat, and made her fast by the painter to the stern.
The skipper shook hands with us all, and smiled at us and patted our shoulders.
“Pauvres garçons!” he said. “You been much blow away ce mornings, eh?”
“No, sir, last night,” said Bigley.
“How you say? You lass night dites, mon garçon.”
“We were fishing, sir, and the squall came, and we’ve been out all night.”
“Brrrr!” ejaculated the French skipper, shrugging his shoulders and making a face, then seizing me he dragged me to a hole away in the stern deck, and pushed me down into quite a snug little cabin with a glowing stove.
“Come—venez. All you come,” he cried, and he thrust the others down and followed quickly.
“Pauvres garçons! Warm you my fire. Chauffez vous. Good you eat bread? Good you drink bran-dee vis vater? Not good for boy sometime, mais good now.”
He kept on chattering to us, half in English, half in French; and as he spoke he cut for us great pieces of bread and Devon butter, evidently freshly taken on board that day. Next he took a large brown bottle from a locker, and mixed in a heavy, clumsy glass a stiff jorum of brandy with water from a kettle on the stove. Into this glass he put plenty of Bristol brown sugar, and made us all drink heartily in turn, so as to empty the glass, when he filled it again.