“Good morning, Captain!” he observed pleasantly.
“Oh—yourn't a parlee voo, then!”
“No, I'm an Englishman.”
“Indeed. Then you'll excuse me, but what in the name of glory are you doing here?”
Christian sat up and looked at his muddy shoes with some interest.
“Well, the truth is that I am bolting. I want to get across to England. I saw where you hailed from by your rig, and clambered on board last night. It seemed to me that when an Englishman is in a hole he cannot do better than go to a fellow-countryman for help.”
Captain Lebrun made a mighty effort to force a passage through his pipe, and was rewarded by a very high-pitched squeak.
“Ay!” he said doubtfully. “But what sort of hole is it? Nothing dirty, I'm hopin'. Who are yer? Why are ye runnin' away, and who are ye runnin' from?”
Though a trifle blunt the sailor's manner was not unfriendly, and Christian laughed before replying.
“Well,” he said, “to tell you the whole story would take a long time. You remember perhaps there was a row, about two months ago, respecting some English rifles found in Paris?”