“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Bruff, taking Alphonse by the hand. “Come along, youngster.”
Bruff was anxious to say something kind to the poor boy, but there was a bar to this, as neither understood each other’s language. Paul followed, guessing this, and hoping that his knowledge of French might be put into requisition. Alphonse, with his fiddle tucked under his arm, entered the berth.
“Here’s a young chap who is a first-rate hand with the catgut, and if any of you can tell him that he is welcome in his own lingo, I wish you would, mates,” said Bruff.
“Mounseer, you are mucho welcomo to our bertho,” exclaimed Blake. “Here’s to your healtho, Mounseer. I hope, Bruff, this is first-rate French.”
“It doesn’t sound like it, but maybe he understands you, for he’s bowing to you in return,” answered Bruff.
Similar attempts at speaking French were made; but, as may be supposed, the young foreigner was as unable as at first to understand what was said.
“How very ignorant they are,” thought Paul. “I wish that they would let me speak to him.”
The young Frenchman, who was of an excitable disposition, at last thinking that the English boys were laughing at him, began to lose temper, and so did they, at what they considered his unexampled stupidity.
Paul, who was standing near the door, mustering courage, at length interpreted what was said into very fair French. The young stranger, with a pleased smile, asked—
“What! can a poor boy like you speak my dear language?”