pointed to the tenth of June, and when I pointed to the second he
evidently found it hard to believe me, but John's condition helped to
corroborate my statement. They let us eat as much as we wished, but
nature protected us, for the process of eating was so painful at first
that I felt like a sword swallower who had partaken too freely of his
favorite dish. Fortunately, also, our hosts were living the simple life.
Their menu consisted chiefly of sliced bread over which had been poured
the broth of fish cooked in water and light wine, the same fish cooked
in oil as a second course, bread and hardtack, and an occasional dish of
beans, which seemed to be regarded by them as a luxury. They had an
abundance of beer and light wine and in the morning before going to haul
their trawls, coffee was served with brandy. Cooking was done on a brick
platform, or fireplace, in the cabin, and the captain, the mate and all
hands sat around one large dish placed on the cabin floor and each
helped himself with his own spoon. A loaf of bread was passed around,
each cutting off a slice with his own sheath knife. But notwithstanding
simple food, frugal meals and primitive conditions, the hospitality was
genuine and against the background of our recent hunger, thirst and
general wretchedness, the place was heaven and our hosts were angels in
thin disguise.

In about ten days we were brought into St. Pierre, the French fishing
town on the small rocky island of Miquelon, off the Newfoundland coast,
the depot of the French fishing fleet and the only remaining foothold
for the French of the vast empire once held by them between the North
Atlantic and the Mississippi Valley. The American consul took us in
charge, sending us to a sailors' boarding house and giving each of us a
change of clothing. In another week we were sent on by steamer to
Halifax, consigned to the American consul at that port. There John's
feet proved to be in such bad condition that it was necessary to send