Jean, the elder of the two, replied freely to all my inquiries; adding such information as suggested itself to him at the moment, and winding up by saying,—
“Monsieur must not be surprised if he is challenged on entering the harbour, that is almost certain to occur; and if it does he has only to give the watch-word, and he will not be further interfered with.”
“And what is the watch-word?” I asked.
“Simply ‘Bateau-pècheur; Bastia,’” he replied. “If you are challenged give the pass-word, and lie upon your oars; that will show them that you are one of us, and you will at once receive permission to proceed.”
“Very well, I think I am pretty well primed now, and may venture to start. Good-bye, Bob, old fellow. Keep a sharp lookout, and bear a hand with your assistance if you see that I need any when returning. And don’t forget my letter to the skipper.”
“All right, never fear; I’ll remember everything. I only wish I could have gone instead of you, Chester. If you succeed it will be no end of a feather in your cap, but if you fail,”—he concluded the sentence with a pantomimic gesture expressive of strangulation. “But there,” he added, “I’ve no fear of that; I never saw such a fellow as you for pulling through; good-bye, old boy; ta-ta; ‘be sure you write.’”
And he wrung my hand heartily; with a gay laugh upon his lips, but something very like a tear glittering in his eye, as the feeble rays of the cabin lamp struggled through the skylight and fell upon his face.
I stepped into the heavy, clumsy, and slimy boat belonging to the fishermen; and, shipping the oars, shoved off and gave way for the shore; a faint twinkling light here and there in the town serving to guide me upon my proper course.
It took me nearly two hours to reach the harbour; the boat being heavy, and the oars much more cumbersome than any I had ever handled before; but I passed in between the two piers at last; and as I did so a dark figure appeared on the extremity of one of them, looming up indistinctly against the dusky sky; and a voice exclaimed sharply, in French,—
“Who goes there?”