The sky was blue over head; the water was blue underneath; the slight breeze caused by the motion of the vessel was grateful on the warm day; and Sir Simon thought he was in Paradise. And now, as they were nearing the French town, there came gliding towards them the steamer that had just put off from it; her deck crowded with merry-faced passengers, congratulating themselves like Sir Simon, at the easy voyage. The vessels exchanged salutes, and passed, each on her way. And now the harbour was gained and traversed; the boat was made fast to the side, and the passengers began to land. The first thing Sir Simon did on _terra firma_ was to turn himself about and gaze around, perfectly bewildered with the strange scene and the strange tongue. It was so new to him: he had never been out of his own country in his life. Bertie Loftus, who knew something of the place, and prided himself on his French, consequently felt obliged to speak it as soon as he landed, drew his uncle to the custom-house through the sea of gazing faces, and said, "Par ici." That passed, and the egress gained, they found themselves in the midst of a crowd of touters, shouting out the names of their respective hotels and thrusting forward cards. "Hotel du Nord," said Bertie, grandly, waving his hands to keep off the men, with an air of deprecating condescension. "But what is it? What do they want? What are these cards?" reiterated Sir Simon. "My goodness me, boys, what's _that?_" "That" was a string of the fishwomen in their matelotte costume, dark cloth short petticoats, red bodies, and broad webbing bracers. They were harnessed to a heavy truck of luggage, already cleared, and starting with it to one of the hotels. "Uncle, we shall never get on if you stay like this," said Bertie. "That's nothing: the women do all the work here." Up came four or five more women and surrounded the party, bawling into Sir Simon's stunned ears with their shrill and shrieking voices, evidently asking something. "What on earth are they saying of, Bertie?" Now Mr. Bertie's French only did for polite table life, and Anglo-French intercourse. To be set upon by a regular Frenchman with his perplexing tongue, and (as it seemed) rapid utterance, puzzled Bertie always: what must it have been then when these fishwomen attacked him with their broad patois? "Come along, uncle; they don't want anything. Allez vous en," rather wrathfully added Bertie to the ladies, which only made them talk the faster. "Bertie, I shall not go along: the poor women must want something, and I should like to know what. What—do—you—want—please?" asked Sir Simon in his politeness, laying a stress upon each word. "Spake Anglish? No spake French, me." Jabber and shriek, jabber and shriek, all the five voices at once, for there were five of them. Sir Simon put up his hands and looked helplessly at Bertie; who was feeling rather helpless himself, just then.