La Chesnaye cuffs the fellow's ears.

"Diddle-dee-dee! Come on, marquis. Does Your High Mightiness give
place to a merchant's son? Heaven help you, gentlemen! Come on! Come
on! Diddle-dee-dee!"

And we all march to M. de Radisson's cabin and sit down gravely at a
long table.

"Pot o' beer, tipstaff," orders Radisson; and Godefroy goes off
slapping his buckskins with glee.

M. Radisson no more takes off his hat than a king's ambassador, but he
waits for La Chesnaye and Forêt to uncover. The merchant strums on the
table and glares at the marquis, and the marquis looks at the skylight,
waiting for the merchant; and the end of it is M. Radisson must give
Godefroy the wink, who knocks both their hats off at once, explaining
that a landsman can ill keep his legs on the sea, and the sea is no
respecter of persons. Once, at the end of his byplay between the two
young fire-eaters, the sea lurched in earnest, a mighty pitch that
threw tipstaff sprawling across the table. And the beer went full in
the face of the marquis.

"There's a health to you, Forêt!" roared the merchant in whirlwinds of
laughter.

But the marquis had gone heels over head. He gained his feet as the
ship righted, whipped out his rapier, vowed he would dust somebody's
jacket, and caught up Godefroy on the tip of his sword by the rascal's
belt.