“I have nothing else to do,” said I.
“You may swing at the yard-arm, if you prefer it,” said he.
“Thanking you all the same, I’ll sail where I am,” said I.
So, with a very heavy heart, I found myself one of the crew of the Arrow.
Chapter Thirteen.
The guard-house at Brest.
Captain Cochin—for so the commander of the Arrow styled himself, though I always had my doubts whether he had any right to one title or the other—was too well aware of the value of his cargo to risk it in pursuing his ordinary calling of a pirate on the present voyage. So he stood well out to sea, ostentatiously flying the English flag, and giving friendly salutes to any chance vessels that came in his course.
“Parbleu!” said he, “England owes me one debt for taking the guns away from those who would have used them against her, and selling them to my poor countrymen, who will use them against one another. But there is no gratitude in England, and if I want payment I must help myself. But not this voyage—by-and-by.”