"I never heard them carry on duty in French," said Ben; "it quite beats
my comprehension how they can do it at all."

"Well, I have," replied my father; "and every word they use is as long
as the maintop bowling, and the mast is over the side before they can
get them out. Why, would you believe it? I once asked one of those
fellows what he called the foremast in his language, and what d'ye think
he said? Why, I'm blowed if he didn't call it a _'Mar-darty-marng'_ (and
that's the only bit of French I know); but how is it possible to work a
ship in such gibberish?"

"Quite unpossible," replied Ben.

"Well, as I've yawed a little out of my course, suppose we have another
swig before I takes a fresh departure?"

After they had both drunk, my father proceeded:

"Well, messmate, I was on the gunnel as soon as the others, and a sword
came down upon me like a flash of lightning. I had just time to lift my
cutlass and save my head, and then I found that it was the sword of the
French lieutenant who commanded the gun-boat. He was a, tall,
clean-built chap, with curls hanging down like a poodle dog's--every
curl not thicker than a rope yarn, and mayhap a thousand of them--and he
quite foamed at the mouth (that's another fault of these Frenchmen, they
don't take things coolly, but puts themselves in a passion about
nothing); so thinks I to myself it won't do for you to go on chopping at
that rate, for when I fended off he made my whole hand tingle with the
force of his blow; so I darts at him and drives the hilt of my cutlass