"You cut-throat! just wait for me!" yelled the Tarasconer as he ran
after, with the knife uplifted.

But Barbassou caught him in the spring, and holding him by the
waist-sash, bade him be quiet.

"Tron de ler! by the throne on high! they're no pirates. It's long
since there were any pirates hereabout. Those dark porters are light
porters. Ha, ha!"

"P--p-porters?"

"Rather, only come after the luggage to carry it ashore. So put up
your cook's galley knife, give me your ticket, and walk off behind
that nigger -- an honest dog, who will see you to land, and even
into a hotel, if you like."

A little abashed, Tartarin handed over his ticket, and falling in
behind the representative of the Dark Continent, clambered down
by the hanging-ladder into a big skiff dancing alongside. All his
effects were already there -- boxes, trunks, gun-cases, tinned food,
-- so cramming up the boat that there was no need to wait for any
other passengers. The African scrambled upon the boxes, and
squatted there like a baboon, with his knees clutched by his hands.
Another Negro took the oars. Both laughingly eyed Tartarin, and
showed their white teeth.

Standing in the stern-sheets, making that terrifying face which had
daunted his fellow-countrymen, the great Tarasconian feverishly
fumbled with his hunting-knife haft; for, despite what Barbassou