they condemn my 'baccy?" I asks.

'"To the last ounce. But I was thinking more of the ship. She'd make a
sweet little craft for the Navy if the Prize Court 'ud let me have her,"
he says.

'Then I knew there was no hope. I don't blame him--a man must consider
his own interests, but nigh every dollar I had was in ship or cargo, and
Steve kept on saying, "You shouldn't have fought us."

'Well, then, the lugger took us to Le Havre, and that being the one time
we did want a British ship to rescue us, why, o' course we never saw
one. My cousin spoke his best for us at the Prize Court. He owned he'd
no right to rush alongside in the face o' the United States flag, but
we couldn't get over those two men killed, d'ye see, and the Court
condemned both ship and cargo. They was kind enough not to make us
prisoners--only beggars--and young L'Estrange was given the BERTHE
AURETTE to re-arm into the French Navy.

'"I'll take you round to Boulogne," he says. "Mother and the rest'll be
glad to see you, and you can slip over to Newhaven with Uncle Aurette.
Or you can ship with me, like most o' your men, and take a turn at King
George's loose trade. There's plenty pickings," he says.

'Crazy as I was, I couldn't help laughing.

'"I've had my allowance of pickings and stealings," I says. "Where are
they taking my tobacco?" 'Twas being loaded on to a barge.

'"Up the Seine to be sold in Paris," he says. "Neither you nor I will
ever touch a penny of that money."

'"Get me leave to go with it," I says. "I'll see if there's justice to
be gotten out of our American Ambassador."

'"There's not much justice in this world," he says, "without a Navy."
But he got me leave to go with the barge and he gave me some money. That
tobacco was all I had, and I followed it like a hound follows a snatched
bone. Going up the river I fiddled a little to keep my spirits up, as
well as to make friends with the guard. They was only doing their duty.
Outside o' that they were the reasonablest o' God's creatures. They
never even laughed at me. So we come to Paris, by river, along in
November, which the French had christened Brumaire. They'd given new
names to all the months, and after such an outrageous silly piece o'
business as that, they wasn't likely to trouble 'emselves with my rights
and wrongs. They didn't. The barge was laid up below Notre Dame church
in charge of a caretaker, and he let me sleep aboard after I'd run about
all day from office to o