"I cannot say precisely. Some hours since," was the reply. "When we heard the barking of a dog we knew that a ship was near, and we judged by the barking that she was approaching. We lighted fires upon the decks, and when the glare gave us a sight of you the sailors lost their senses, and ran about shouting and screeching. They were too mad to obey orders. The captain fell as I ran past him, his hands clasped upon his heart, and as he had all along complained of the weakness of that organ, I am certain he died of disease."
"Your countrymen are not good sailors," said Captain Layard.
The Frenchman grinned ghastly, and Sailor rumbled afresh with a stiffening of his level fore legs as though he must rise.
"If I had been your captain," continued Layard, "I should have saved my flying-jib boom and topgallantmast, and my sailors would not have rushed about and torn their throats open with the shrieks of fear—that womanly spirit!"
His smile was lofty, his self-complacency inexpressible, you guessed if there had been a mirror at hand he would have admired himself in it.
His talk, but not his face, was past the Frenchman's comprehension. He rolled his eyes upon Hardy, then upon a decanter half-full of rum, standing upon a swinging tray, timing the pulse of the sea.
"He asks for a drink, sir," said Hardy.
"Give him a tot," replied Captain Layard, "then let the second mate tell the bo'sun to find him a hole to lie down in. I don't like his looks."
He walked abruptly to his berth, followed by the dog, but before he entered he turned to the animal and exclaimed, "On deck, Sailor, and keep a lookout till the smother thins," and the Newfoundland sprang up the steps.
The Frenchman, with a smile at Hardy, touched his brow. The mate, without noticing the fellow's gesture, took the decanter of rum from the swing tray and gave him a glass of grog. As he handed the tumbler to the man, he said: