“Fonde el ancla!”
“Begorrah, I can’t say to his ankles!” said the Irishman, not understanding of course what he said, and mistaking the sound of the words. “Till him they’re all right, sor. Faix it’s all I can do to hould his arms, let alone his legs, sure!”
“Nonsense, Macan,” I cried, not able to keep from laughing. “He didn’t say anything about his ankles, or legs either.”
“Thin, what did he say, sor, if ye’ll excuse me for axin?”
“‘Fonde el ancla,’” I replied, “means, you donkey, to ‘let go the anchor!’”
Chapter Nineteen.
Mutiny or Murder?
“Poor fellow!” said Dr Nettleby, on my thus translating the Spaniard’s exclamation for Corporal Macan’s benefit. “I’m afraid he has dropped his anchor in real earnest.”