Jews of Jerusalem in typical costume
“But,” he went on, in milder tones, “this note asks the company to give you as cheap a passage as possible; and it’s addressed to the agent, not to the captain of this ship.”
“What, sir!” I cried, “Is that all? Why, the consil knowed I ’adn’t no money, sir.”
“It’s open; why the devil didn’t you read it?” retorted the skipper.
“Aye, sir,” I answered, “but it’s wrote in some foreign lingo.”
“Eh?—er—well, that’s right,” admitted the commander, with a waver of pride in his voice. “It’s written in French, and this is what it says”—and he translated it.
“Why that bloomin’ consil—” I gasped.
“American sailor, are you?” demanded the captain.
I handed him my Sardinian and Warwickshire discharges.