“Yes, I go vit you,” observed the skipper. “I no fear dat fellow,” pointing to Croft, already in the boat, “nor his grand maitre.”
“Well, come and talk things over,” said Harry Goodall. “But how about this Anarchist? Are you hurt, my man?”
“Sacré! Mort au bourgeoisie!” was his sole reply.
“He no run avay; pere-haps I vant him soon,” said the skipper. “He is a good sailor, but a fool to do vit dy-nam-mite and bomb-shell.”
“I may have to run you into Cherbourg,” said Captain Link. “We must talk it over on board.”
“See you here, monsieur capitaine,” replied the skipper, as Croft was put below hatches on board the Retriever, “you vant to meet the little man’s maister, don’t you? Den de first ting is to let me and the luggare go.”
“I don’t quite see that,” said Harry Goodall.
“Come on board, skipper, and have a glass of Burgundy,” urged Captain Link, diplomatically.
“Oh, certamong monsieur capitaine, aprèz vous. I vant to go avay in my luggare, and you vant, I tink, Maître Fallcone to com to you; vary vell. Vat is so, is it not?”
Warner, who had locked up his prisoner safely, then joined the party in the cabin, where the skipper was gesticulating over his wine and slapping his forehead, as if he had conceived a bright idea.