"What's up with your parents, I'd like to know," remarked a third, "that they lot you go to sea in a cockleshell?"
"Shut up, boys, and hold your noise, all of you!" said the red-haired man in a voice like a speaking-trumpet. "Time enough for all that later on. Can't you see, you three blind bats, that the lad's half dead with cold and hunger and fear? Here, Frank," he called to a tall boy who appeared just then from the cuddy with a big metal teapot in his hand, "take the youngster to your place, and let him have a wash and a warm, and then give him some tea and cold corned beef, and afterwards bring him below to me."
So, an hour later, poor Tad, clean and comfortable, and with his appetite satisfied, was ushered into the trim cabin, where the skipper sat finishing his own meal.
"Now then, my young voyager," said he, as Tad stood silently before him, "give an account of yourself! How did you happen to be floatin' round in the sea, as I found you?"
"Afore I say anything, sir," replied Tad, "what do you mean to do with me?"
"We're bound for Granville with Norwegian pine," said the skipper; "and as I can't alter my course for you, you've got to go along of me."
"And please, sir, where may Granville be? Is it in Wales or maybe Scotland?"
"No, my lad, it's in France," rejoined the man.
"France!" exclaimed Tad, aghast. "But I don't want to go to France."
"Then I don't see but what we must stop the ship, and put you aboard your small boat—as we're towin' at this present moment—and let you drift; then, as sure as my name's Jeremiah Jackson, you'll go to the bottom of the sea the first breeze that comes. If you like that better than France, I'll give the orders at once." And the big skipper laughed.