As soon as the Frenchman could get his breath he bellowed loudly, but he was afraid to struggle lest Danny should drop him, and he little knew the strength in those young sinews and strong boyish arms.
“You ain’t never heerd o’ Commodore Paul Jones,” bawled Danny, “and you never heerd on the Bunnum Richard nor the S’rapis nuther, but I reckon you’ll remember all about ’em next time you hear on’ em!” Danny emphasized these remarks by giving the little Frenchman several tremendous shakes, which terrified him more than ever.
The commotion was not heard for a moment or two, on account of the rattling of the diligence and the rate at which they were traveling, but as soon as the affair was noticed cries resounded from the passengers, both to Danny and to the postilions to check the horses. Just as Paul Jones turned around and caught sight of Danny the diligence came to a halt, and, with a final shake, Danny dropped the Frenchman in the road.
Quite forgetting himself in the surprise and shock of the occasion, Paul Jones cried out angrily: “What are you doing, sir? Have you lost your mind?”
“No, sir,” replied Danny, touching his cap again, “but that ’ere frog-eating landlubber, he had the imperence for to tell me that he ain’t never heerd o’ you, sir, nor of the way you took the Drake and the S’rapis, nor the forty-two British cap’ns as was on the lookout for you, sir; so I jest handed him over the side, sir, meanin’ to hold him there by the slack o’ his trousers till he axed for quarter, sir.”
Meanwhile, the Frenchman, sputtering and swearing, had got up from the ground and was brushing the dust off his elegant attire. The French officer, his master, at first disposed to be angry, could not help laughing at Danny’s explanation and the tone in which it was given. He explained it in French, and everybody shouted with laughter, except the unfortunate lackey and Paul Jones, but even Paul Jones could not wholly refrain from smiling.
“Behave yourself better in future, sir, and remember it is I who tell you so.”
Danny bobbed his head and touched his cap again, saying, “Ay, ay, sir.”
But the boy’s words had turned every eye on Paul Jones. Was this slight, dark, quiet man the redoubtable Paul Jones, the terror of the seas, the man that England put forth all her might to capture, but who was still free, still great? Paul Jones’s dark skin flushed under this close scrutiny. The French officer, raising his hat, made a profound bow, and said:
“May I ask if we have the honor of addressing the celebrated, the invincible Paul Jones?”