"Goddam," said the little red-capped Frenchman who had first discovered them. "Cognac! I spik English—brandee, Por'smout', Lon-don!"
Jones made signs that he presented the case to them.
"I ain't above makin' a concession or two," he remarked confidentially to the French captain; "but if I'd listened to my lot on board, it would 'ave been blood up to the neck."
The Frenchman shook his head.
"You bet it would 'ave bin," said Jones earnestly, "but what d'ye say to 'avin' a drink? Billy, gimme your knife."
And with it he started opening the case, while the Frenchmen's eyes gleamed in pleasing anticipation. They had not had a drink for weeks. And as they carried the case down to the ship with Jones and their own captain in the rear, they concluded that the English were not such bad chaps after all.
"But where's my man 'Art!" asked Jones, when he came to the French camp.
"'Ere I be," cried Hart, who was lashed hard and fast to a round rock. "Lord, captain, but I've 'ad a time. Can't you cut me adrift, sir?"
Jones shook his head.
"You interferin' galoot, it serves you right. And as for that, the 'ole crew's under arrest, where I put 'em for mut'ny, and I don't see as I should so pick and choose among 'em as to use my hinfluence to 'ave you let go. At any rate, bide a bit, and I'll see."