“Dead!” cried I, from the bottom-board. “No more dead than you!”
I turned over so lustily that he dropped my feet, and I sat up, something to his consternation. And they had scarce hooked the ship's side when I sprang up the sea-ladder, to the great gaping of the boat's crew, and stood with the water running off me in rivulets before the captain himself. I shall never forget the look of his face as he regarded my sorry figure.
“Now by Saint Andrew,” exclaimed he, “are ye kelpie or pirate?”
“Neither, captain,” I replied, smiling as the comical end of it came up to me, “but a young gentleman in misfortune.”
“Hoots!” says he, frowning at the grinning half-circle about us, “it's daft ye are—”
But there he paused, and took of me a second sizing. How he got at my birth behind my tangled mat of hair and wringing linsey-woolsey I know not to this day. But he dropped his Scotch and merchant-captain's manner, and was suddenly a French courtier, making me a bow that had done credit to a Richelieu.
“Your servant, Mr.—”
“Richard Carvel, of Carvel Hall, in his Majesty's province of Maryland.”
He seemed sufficiently impressed.
“Your very humble servant, Mr. Carvel. 'Tis in faith a privilege to be able to serve a gentleman.”