“You no have taken dinner, sare,” continued the skipper. “I will tell de cook to make dinner ready.”
“Not a bad idea, monsieur,” said Hanks. “Which of you chaps is cook?”
The Frenchman pointed to the fellow whose head Jack had nearly broken. He spoke a few words to him, and the man—having got up and stretched himself to ascertain, I suppose, that no bones were broken—dived below, and presently returned with a white cap and apron, and several pans and dishes, and began busying himself in the mysteries of his art. Again he dived, the fire in the forepeak burned up brightly, and savory smells began to ascend therefrom. In about an hour the skipper, with another bow, invited us into his little well-like cabin aft, where a collation, such as an epicure might envy, was placed before us. What were its component parts I did not inquire. They may have been cats and frogs, but neither Hanks nor I were in any way particular, and no dreadful surmises crossed my mind. An Englishman would have broached a keg of brandy, but our friend, Monsieur Didot, placed a bottle of fine-flavoured claret and a variety of first-rate liqueurs before us, not that either Hanks or I was well able to appreciate the former.
“Come, monsieur, hand us out a bottle of some real stuff or other; I’m not fond of your pink vinegars,” exclaimed Hanks, as he tossed off a tumbler of the claret. “This isn’t bad for washing the dust out of a fellow’s throat on a hot day, but there’s no life-blood in it.”
The skipper, with a twinkle of his eyes which betokened mischief, though unfortunately Hanks did not perceive it, produced a large square bottle, thick at the top, from which he poured out a glass of first-rate Scheidam. Hanks smacked his lips as he tasted it.
“Take care, Neil, my child,” said he, “you don’t swallow much of that stuff; it’s too good. I’ll just smack at another glass, and then we’ll go on deck out of the way of temptation.”
The Frenchman looked mightily disappointed when he saw that Hanks was not so easily taken in as he doubtless expected he would be. I happened to look round as we left the cabin, and saw him shrugging his shoulders and making hideous grimaces, and no very complimentary gestures at us. Before this little incident I had thought him the pink of politeness. He wore love-locks and rings in his ears, and was dressed with the most accurate French nautical precision; in fact he looked thoroughly unlike an English seaman. In his manners he was a very mild man, and certainly he had nothing of the ruffian about him. I cannot say as much for his crew, some of whom were very ill-looking dogs. It would have been wiser in Hanks to have handcuffed them all, including the skipper and cook (though we should thereby have gone without a good dinner), and stationed a sentry with a loaded musket over them, with orders to shoot the first who should attempt to escape.
The French skipper, when he found that his plan to obfuscate the brains of the knowing old Hanks had totally failed, went and sat himself down forward among his people, apparently in a fit of the sulks.
Hanks, who was in high spirits at the success of our enterprise, walked the deck with me, looking out for the high land of the Isle of Wight above the Needle rocks, which we were approaching. The breeze had increased and kicked up a little sea, and we were running fast through the water.
“D’Arcy, my boy, this is a fine haul, isn’t it?” exclaimed my superior, rubbing his hands. “Credit and prize-money together. Both good things. When I was a youngster I thought something about the first; but now, do you see, Mrs Hanks and I have a fancy for t’other. It keeps the pot boiling, do ye see? I should think your uncle, by this time, was much of my way of thinking, though he’s a round number of years younger than I am.”