Presently, this latter gentleman, casting a casual eye around, spied the poor mastless, derelict-looking little yacht, rolling about in the heavy tide-race that was taking her on to the rocks.
Instantly, sailor-like, he became all animation; taking his pipe out of his mouth and shouting out to his fellow-voyager astern with much gesticulation.
“Tiens, Jacques!” he cried, “voilà un bâteau qui courre sur les brisants!”
“Quoi?” carelessly asked the other. “Vous moquez vous!”
But the one who had first spoken repeated what he’d said, to the effect that there was “a boat drifting on the rocks, and likely to be wrecked.” “Jacques,” however, as his comrade had called him, did not seem much interested in the matter, merely shrugging his shoulders, implying that it was “none of his concern.”
“C’est bien,” said he. “Pas mon affaire.”
The other, though, seemed more taken with the little craft, climbing up a couple of steps into the rigging in order to have a better look at her.
He had not gazed a moment when his excitement became intensified.
“Mon Dieu, Jacques!” he sang out. “Il-y-a quelqu’un à bord! Deux personnes, et des garçons je crois; mais, ils sont morts!”
“Pas possible,” cried the helmsman, showing a little more interest. “Really?”