The touch had no effect, and I took hold and shook him.
“Jarette—Jarette!” I said.
He sprang partly up with a faint cry, and to my horror, gripped me by the throat.
“Curse you, I’ll— Ah, it’s you, cher ami,” he said, beginning fiercely, and changing his tone to a whisper. “No, no, not yet,” he continued, “it isn’t ripe. Wait, cher ami, wait a little.”
“Jarette,” I said wonderingly, for the man puzzled me—I had no key to his meaning then—“wake up. I’m sorry I roused you, but we want a fishing-line, and Bob Hampton says you have some.”
“What—to fish! No, you wish to speak. Hist! I—ah, I see now,” he cried quickly. “It is dark below. I see it is you, Mr Dale. Fishing-lines? Yes, I get you some.”
“Why, you thought I was Mr Walters,” I said, laughing.
“I?—my faith, no, sir. I was asleep and dreaming. Yes,” he continued, scrambling out and going to a canvas bag, out of which he drew a large square wooden winder.
“There; it is a very long line and nearly new. I have not used it once, sir. Mister the captain objects to the men having these delassements, these untirings, when you are weary.”
“Oh, thank you, Jarette,” I cried eagerly.