On the previous evening the conversation that had gone on between the doctor and the Count had hardly ended before the Spaniard’s boat, rowed by a couple of men, came as near as they could get to the brig, and one of the bare-legged men, after giving a sharp look round into the shallow water, as if in search of danger from one of the hideous reptiles on the look-out for prey, stepped over into the mud, and came up, bearing a basket of large, freshly-caught fish, which he placed in the hands of a couple of the sailors, and then stood waiting.
“Ah!” cried the doctor. “The fish the Spanish captain promised me. Our thanks to your master, and I will not forget what he wanted.”
The man answered him in Spanish.
“Ah, now you are taking me out of my depth,” said the doctor. “Do you speak French?”
The man shook his head.
“English, then?”
“No comprende, señor,” replied the man hurriedly—or what sounded like it.
“Never mind, then,” said the doctor. “I’ll send your skipper some powder to-morrow.”
The man shook his head and made signs, repeating them persistently, frowning and shaking his head.
“I think he means, uncle,” cried Rodd, “that he won’t go away until you have paid him in powder for the fish.”