“Oh, but that’s in time of war,” cried Rodd. “Ay, sir, but your private ears aren’t very particular about that. This is near enough to war time still, and if I was our skipper I should keep a good sharp eye on that craft. But he knows pretty well what he’s about. His head is screwed on the right way. But I say, Mr Rodd, how should you like a bit of the real thing, same as we used to have when I was in a King’s ship?”
“What, a naval action?”
“Oh, you may call it that, sir, if you like. I mean a bit of real French and English, and see which is best man.”
“Oh, nonsense! That’s all over now, Joe.”
“I don’t know so much about that, sir.”
“But we are in a friendly port, Joe, and no French ship would dare attack one of ours.”
“No, sir, I know they daren’t do it,” said the man stubbornly; “but if they could catch us asleep they might have a try. But there, don’t you be uncomfortable. There’s too much of the weasel about our skipper, and he’ll be too wide awake to let any Frenchman catch him asleep.”
“Ah, you are thinking a lot of nonsense, Joe,” said Rodd. “The war is all at an end, and Napoleon Bonaparte shut up in prison at Saint Helena. There’ll be no more fighting now.”
“Well, sir, I suppose you are right,” said the man, with something like a sigh; “but you see, like some of my mates, I have seen a bit of sarvice in a King’s ship, and we have got our guns on board, and we have just now been lying alongside—I should say bow and stern—of a Frenchman so as we could slew round and rake her; and it sets a man thinking. But there, I suppose you are right, and there will be no fighting for us this voyage.”
“Of course there won’t be. We are friends now with France.”