"But that man hadn't any clothes on," argued I, as if I must prove that the Skipper had been somebody else.
"Neither had I," said the Skipper. "Naked as a new-born babe. That's proper to-day, I suppose, anyway. It's my birthday, sixty-sixth."
Poor old man!
"What did they want with your clothes?" I asked, for the memory that I carried with me of the Skipper's ancient raiment, worn and soiled with salt water and earth stains, did not make them seem very valuable, even to a Haïtien.
"They didn't want anything with my clothes," answered the Skipper; "'twas me they wanted. But they stripped me to a gantlin' all the same. After that fight I tried to follow you, but three fellows seized me and took my clothes and threw them into the bush, and began to hurry me off to the first temple that we saw, where that little shaver was crying."
"Yes, I know," said I; "and then——"
"Well, the battle was going the other way. I wanted to run after you to the shore, but those men held me between them. In a little while we got near the temple, and I thought my last moment had come for sure, when who should pop out of the trees but some of these big black men, who Christophe has for his body guard."
"Yes, yes," said I, hurrying him on.
"And when they saw me they waved their clubs round their heads, and those forlorn little Haïtiens ran away. Then I gave the black men the slip, but they caught me again."
"If they were so little——" suggested I.