"'Hurrah!' says he, 'we're all right now; pull away, my boys,' says he.
"'Take care you're not mistaken,' says I; 'maybe it's only a fog-bank, captain, darlint,' says I.
"'Oh, no,' says he, 'it's the land in airnest.'
"'Oh, then, whereabouts in the wide world are we, captain?' says I; 'maybe it id be in Roosia or Proosia, or the Garman Oceant,' says I.
"'Tut, you fool,' says he—for he had that consaited way wid him—thinkin' himself cleverer nor any one else—'tut, you fool,' says he; 'that's France,' says he.
"'Tare an ouns,' says I, 'do you tell me so? And how do you know it's France it is, captain, dear,' says I.
"'Bekase this is the Bay o' Bishky we're in now,' says he.
"'Throth, I was thinkin' so myself,' says I, 'by the rowl it has; for I often heerd av it in regard o' that same;' and, throth, the likes av it I never seen before nor since, and, with the help o' God, never will.
"Well, with that my heart begun to grow light, and when I seen my life was safe, I began to grow twice hungrier nor ever—so says I, 'Captain, jewel, I wish we had a gridiron.'
"'Why, then,' says he, 'thundher and turf,' says he, 'what put a gridiron into your head?'