“Yes, she is a beauty,” he said. “It would be a pity to let her go down. Look at her lines, and the way she’s rigged. If I wanted to sail a brig I wouldn’t wish for a better; but then, you see, I don’t. She’s a bit low in the water, though, and no mistake. Well, we shall see; we shall see.”
The Count and his son were eagerly awaiting their coming, and welcomed them warmly as they mounted the side, while, casting off his show of indifference, the skipper cast an admiring glance round the deck of the brig, and then gruffly exclaimed—
“Now then, sir, I want your bo’sun. But look here, can he parley English?”
“No,” said the Count, “but my son and I will interpret everything you wish to hear.”
“I don’t know as I want to hear anything, sir,” growled the skipper. “I want to see for myself, and after that mebbe I shall want to give a few orders, which I will ask you to have carried out.”
“Yes; everything you wish shall be done directly.”
“Umph!” grunted the skipper, looking round. “Pump rigged, and two men trying to keep the water under. Ought to be four.”
“Yes, of course,” cried the Count, and he turned to give an order; but Captain Chubb clapped his hand upon his arm.
“Hold hard,” he said. “They’ll do for a bit. Now then, I want to go below and sound the well.”
The Count and his son led the way below, the French crew standing aloof and displaying the discipline of a man-of-war, no man leaving his place while the skipper made all the investigations he required, and then came up on deck with his mahogany face more deeply lined with wrinkles than before.