“I hope they won’t get into a scrape for what they have done for us,” observed Ronald. “Though he is an odd fish in some respects, I liked that fellow, Alfonse Gerardin; and from the glimpse I got of his father, I should say he is first-rate.”
The health of their friends was therefore drunk in some very fair claret, which was found among the stores, and never has a merrier party floated in an open boat out in the Atlantic.
Two days passed, and Mr Calder calculated that they were well into the Chops of the Channel.
Several vessels had been seen, but none had been approached. Mr Calder did not care about this; he hoped to carry the boat into Falmouth or Plymouth harbour in safety.
The evening was drawing on. “A sail on the starboard bow!” was the cry. She was a ship standing across channel; unless she or they altered their course, she could not help falling
in with them. From the look of the vessel it was impossible to say whether she was a friend or an enemy.
“If them there tops’ls weren’t cut by an English sail-maker, I’m ready to pass for a Schiedam drinking big-breeched Dutchman for the rest of my born days,” observed Job Truefitt, in a decisive tone, as standing up on the forecastle deck, and holding on by the mast, he shaded his eyes with his hand, and took a severe scrutiny of the stranger.
“Maybe I’ve handed them more than once and again.”
“What do you make her out to be, Truefitt?” asked Mr Calder from aft.