“We are going to put into the shore there,” said the skipper, pointing to it. “If you take my advice, you will land.”
“But that is not the sort of place to which I wish to go,” said the Count. “My object on board your barge was to take a passage to some habitable region, where I could obtain food, rest, and shelter.”
“The sea-gulls will afford you plenty of food; as to rest, you can lie down on the sand; and as for shelter, your pocket-handkerchief will afford you as much as you are likely to find.”
“I protest against being so treated,” said the Count, naturally growing indignant.
“To whom do you protest,” asked the skipper, “to me or my crew? There’s no one else to hear you, and we do not care the snuff of a candle for your protestations.”
The mate and the crew uttered not a word.
“I must submit to my hard destiny,” thought the Count; “I have not made a very brilliant commencement of my sporting adventures, but I set out with the intention of shooting birds, and apparently the island abounds with them.”
In a short time the barge touched the sandy beach.
“You will step on shore, Count Funnibos,” said the skipper, with an ill-favoured grin on his countenance.
“But I have paid my passage-money, and I protest.”