student.

Colville took in the whole picture in one quick comprehensive glance.
But he turned again as the singer on board "The Last Hope" began another
verse. The words were clearly audible to such as knew the language, and
Colville noted that the girl turned with a sudden gravity to listen to
them.

"Un tel qu'on vantait
Par hasard etait
D'origine assez mince;
Par hasard il plut,
Par hasard il fut
Baron, ministre, et prince."

Captain Clubbe's harsh voice broke into the song with the order to let
go the anchor. As the ship swung to the tide the steersman, who wore
neither coat nor waistcoat, could be seen idly handling the wheel still,
though his duties were necessarily at an end. He was a young man, and a
gay salutation of his unemployed hand toward the assembled people--as
if he were sure that they were all friends--stamped him as the
light-hearted singer, so different from the Farlingford men, so strongly
contrasted to his hearers, who nevertheless jerked their heads sideways
in response. He had, it seemed, rightly gauged the feelings of these
cold East Anglians. They were his friends.

River Andrew's boat was alongside "The Last Hope" now. Some one had
thrown him a rope, which he had passed under his bow thwart and now held
with one hand, while with the other he kept his distance from the
tarry side of the ship. There was a pause until the schooner felt her
moorings, then Captain Clubbe looked over the side and nodded a curt
salutation to River Andrew, bidding him, by the same gesture, wait a
minute until he had donned his shore-going jacket. The steersman was
pulling on his coat while he sought among the crowd the faces of his
more familiar friends. He was, it seemed, a privileged person, and
took it for granted that he should go ashore with the captain. He was,
perhaps, one of those who seemed to be privileged at their birth by
Fate, and pass through life on the sunny side with a light step and
laughing lips.

Captain Clubbe was the first to step ashore, with one comprehensive nod
of the head for all Farlingford. Close on his heels the younger sailor
was already returning the greetings of his friends.

"Hullo, Loo!" they said; or, "How do, Barebone?" For their tongues are
no quicker than their limbs, and to this day, "How do?" is the usual
greeting.

The Marquis de Gemosac, who was sitting in the background, gave a sharp
little exclamation of surprise when Barebone