“And I thank you, captain,” replied my father. “You have saved my boy’s life. Will you accept this in remembrance? It is old but good.”
My father drew out his plain gold watch, and I saw the Frenchman’s eyes glisten as he stretched out a not very clean hand.
But he snatched it back directly.
“Mais non—but no!” he exclaimed. “I not have hims. We are sailors all. Some day I am in open boat, and you take me in your sheep, and say ‘Ma foi! Pauvre fellow, you cold—you hoongrai—you starve youselfs.’ And you give me hot grogs, and varm fires, and someting to eats. I no give you ze gold vatch. Mais non—mais non—mais non. Voilà. I take zat hankshife, blue as ze skies of France, and I wear him roun’ my necks. Give me hims.”
My father smiled and then unknotted the bright blue silk neckerchief he wore, and accompanied it with a hearty shake of the hand.
“Thank you, captain,” he said warmly.
“And you—merci. We go to war some day. Who know I may be prisonaire. I may come to fight against you, and then. Eh bien, ve fight, but you take me prisonaire, ma foi. I am vis ze shentleman, and it is good.”
“And now it’s my turn,” said the doctor. “Will you keep this, captain, from me?”
“Ma foi. Yais, oui,” cried the French skipper, whose eyes sparkled with pleasure as the doctor handed him a very bright peculiarly-formed knife. “I keep hims. Vat is ze mattaire vis ze young shipwrecked open boatman?”
“Nothing—nothing at all,” said Bob Chowne hastily; but he had certainly uttered a groan.