“Quite so, monsieur. The sailing of the squadron was upon every one’s tongue a short time ago.”
“There is no use in crying over spilled milk,” said Dale, with a sigh as they walked away. “As Captain Jones is gone, I’ll have a try for some other American skipper.”
But there was none in Brest at that time; and after a two days’ stay Dale said to Ethan,
“I think I’ll go to L’Orient. There at least must be an American privateer there that I can get a berth in.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Ethan; “then I shall go on to Paris, report my further failure to Dr. Franklin, and after that sail for home.”
They traveled by diligence to L’Orient, which was no great distance from Brest. Dale at once sought out a shipping office which he knew to be much frequented by American shipmen in search of hands to man their crafts.
A trim looking midshipman stood near the door, and he looked at them with attention as they entered. Directly behind him loomed a tall, spare, large boned man of singular erectness. He had an ugly sabre stroke across his face.
“Longsword!” cried Ethan as his delighted eyes fell upon him.
“Master Ethan,” came a deep chested shout from the Irish dragoon. Then with a wild Irish “hurro!” he leaped forward and clasped the boy in a bear-like hug.
“I thought you had been taken prisoner,” gasped the young American, breathless from the pressure which the powerful trooper had put upon his ribs.