"

I said, "There is no king; he was beheaded."

"What was his name?" said he.

"Louis the Sixteenth," I answered.

"Ha!" cried he, with an arch sneer; "Louis the Sixteenth, hey? Are you
sure it wasn't Louis the Seventeenth?"

"He is dead too."

"This is news, Mr. Rodney," said he scornfully.

"Whilst you have been here," said I, "many mighty changes have happened.
France has produced as great a general and as dangerous a villain as the
world ever beheld; his name is Buonaparte."

He shrugged his shoulders with an air of mocking pity.

"Who is your king?" he asked.

"George the Third," said I; "God bless him!"

"So--George and Louis--Louis and George. I see how it is. Stick to your
dates, sir. But, my friend, never set up as a schoolmaster."

This sally seemed to delight him, and he burst into a loud laugh.

"Eighteen hundred and one!" he cried. "A man I knew once lost ten
thousand livres at a _coup_. What do you think happened? They settled in
him here;" he patted his belly: "he went about bragging to everybody
that he was made of money, and was nicknamed the walking bourse. One day
he asked a friend to dine with him; when the bill was presented he felt
in his pockets, and exclaimed, 'I left my purse at home. No matter;
there is plenty here;' with which he seized a table-knife and ripped
himself open. Eighteen hundred and one, d'ye call it? _Soit._ But let
it be _your_ secret, my friend. The world will not love you for making
it fifty years older than it is."

It was ridiculous to attempt to combat such obstinacy as this, and as
the subject produced nothing but excitement and irritation, I dropped it
and meddled with it no more, leaving him to his conviction that I was
cracked in this one particular. In fact, it was a matter of no
consequence at all; what came very much closer home was the business of
our deliverance, and over this we talked long and very earnestly, for he
forgot to be mean and fierce and boastful, and I to dislike and fear
him, when we spoke of getting away with our treasure, and returning to
our native home.

For hour after hour would we go on plotting and planning and scheming,
stepping about the cook-house in our earnestness, and entirely engrossed
with the topic. His contention was that if we were to save the money and
plate, we must save the schooner.

"Unless we build a vessel," said I.

"Out of what?"

"Out of this schooner."

"Are you a carpenter?" said he.

"No," I