"What?"
"Go yourself. Come with me. You can get out into the street by the garden. It used to be a movin' picture place, but they stopped it because of the lights. And it's mostly French sailors go there. American bar, see? What the matelots call hig' lif'. I speak French, so I go there. Now you come along and see what we can do."
"And leave the ship?"
"The ship won't run away, I can promise you that. And the watchman's there in the galley, ain't he? I'll get my coat."
"And how do I know when she'll come, supposing she does come to this place you're talking about?"
"You want me to tell you that!" said the bosun in a faint voice, lifting his broad features to the heavens in protest. "I thought you knew," he added, looking down again at Mr. Spokesly.
"Sometime before daylight," muttered that gentleman, getting up. "I'll go with you, but mind, you got to stand by to row me back whenever I want you. Understand? No going off with your matelots. Nice thing, if anything should happen and me out o' the ship."
"All right, all right. You don't need to get sore with your own bosun," said Plouff. "I can tell you, you might have a worse one. Here's me, sits all the evening, playin' rummy and one eye on the ship from that American bar, and all you can do's get sore. What do you think I am, a bum? If it hadn't been for me havin' my eyes about me in Port Said, them A-rabs would ha' stove her in against the next ship twenty time. Me sittin' up half the night makin' fenders. Oh, yes!"
"Come on then. You're as bad as the Old Man when it comes to chewing the rag. Can you talk French like that?"
"As good as English. Faster. More of it. I know more French words than English."