“No, sir; I don’t say I think anything without having a look. But as there don’t seem to be any fighting going on, and you and the doctor here turns out to be old friends, why, before you talk of throwing up your job and taking to your boats—which would be a much more sensible thing to do than going down with colours flying when there warn’t no need, and setting aside getting some fresh water and provisions into your boats and making for a place on the West Afric coast—I should just like to come on board your craft with my man and see what mightn’t be done by stopping that there leak.”
“My friend!” cried the Count excitedly, and he caught the skipper by the hands.
“Well, sir,” said the skipper, with a grim smile, “if you are Mr Rodd’s and the doctor’s friend and wants to be friends with me, why, Tom Chubb aren’t the man to say no and want to keep enemies. So there’s my fin. But look ’ere, you know,” he continued, as he gave the Count’s thin white hand a tremendous grip, “yours was a very queer way of coming upon us, and might have meant some nasty marks on my white decks. You can’t help being a Frenchman, but do you know what an Englishman would have done? He’d have just come here civil like and said, ‘Look here, strangers, we have sprung a leak, and we are going down. Come and lend us a hand at the pumps.’”
“Ah, yes, of course,” said the Count warmly. “It is what I should have done.”
“And you would like me to come aboard and see if there’s anything we can do?”
“Yes, yes!” cried the Count eagerly.
“All right, then, sir,” said the skipper coolly; “I am sailing under the doctor’s orders, and if he’s willing, I’m your man.”