“I am not going to deny,” continued Rodd, “that there are plenty of horrible wretches amongst the French. And that Revolution was awful; but haven’t we plenty of bad men amongst the English?”
The skipper chuckled.
“Well, yes, we have had some pretty tidy ones, if you come to read your histories. But I don’t know so much about those chaps being brave. It was a very clever bit of seamanship, mind you, that taking the brig out in the teeth of the storm with hardly room to tack. I am not a bad pilot in my way when I like to try, but I will be honest over it; I daren’t have tried that job. It was a very clean thing. But look here, my lad. It’s no use for you to try and crack that up, because him who did it must have been as mad as a hatter, and between ourselves, that’s what I think that Count is.”
“Oh, fudge, captain!” cried Rodd. “No more mad than you or I.”
“Well, I can answer for myself, my lad,” said the skipper, with a chuckle, “but that’s more than I’d do for you, for you do some precious outrageous things sometimes.”
“I?” cried Rodd.
“Yes, you, my lad.”
“What a shame!” cried Rodd indignantly. “I defy you to prove that I have done anything that you could call mad. Now tell me something. What have you ever known me do that wasn’t sensible?”
“Oh, that’s soon done,” cried the skipper. “Didn’t you go and gammon the soldiers when they were after the escaped French prisoners? Don’t you call that a mad act? Fighting against the laws of your country like that!”
“Ah, well, I suppose I oughtn’t to have helped them, captain; but I couldn’t help it.”