“It is—c’est bon—good phee-seek—make you no enrhumée—you no have colds. No. Eat, boys. Aha! You warm yourselves. Hey?”
We thanked him, for the glowing stove, the sheltered cabin, the hot brandy and water, and the soft new bread and butter, seemed to give us all new life. The warm blood ran through our veins, and our clothes soon ceased to steam. The French skipper, who had, as we rowed to the side of the lugger, looked about as unpleasant and villainous a being as it was possible to meet, now seemed quite a good genius, and whatever his failings or the nature of his business, he certainly appeared to be deriving real pleasure from his task of restoring the three half-perished lads who had appealed to him for help, and the more we ate, the more he rubbed his hands together and laughed.
“How zey feroce like ze volf, eh? How zey are very mosh hunger. Eat you, my young vrens. Eat you, my young son of ze Jonas Ugglee-stone. I know you fader. He is mon ami. Aha! I drink your helse all of you varey.”
He poured himself out a little dram of the spirit and tossed it off.
For a good half hour he devoted himself to us, making us eat, stoking the little stove, and giving us blankets and rough coats to wear to get us warm again. After that he turned to Bigley and laid his arms upon his shoulders, drooping his hands behind, and throwing back his head as he looked him in the face.
“You like me make my sheep to you hous, yais?”
“Take us home, sir. Oh, if you please,” cried Bigley.
“Good—c’est bon—my frien. I make my sheep take you. Lay off, you say, and you land in your leettle boats. My faith, yes! And you tell you fader the Capitaine Apollo Gualtière—he pronounced his surname as if it was Goo-awl-tee-yairrrre—make him present of hees sone, and hees young friens. Brave boys. Ha, ha!”
He nodded to us all in turn, and smiled as he gave us each a friendly rap on the chest with the back of his hand.
“Now you warm mosh more my stove, and I go on le pont to make my sheep.”