As I slowly brought our boat alongside, some of the crew were in evidence, getting ready for their day's work, and they seemed perplexed to account for our early morning call. But, when we came close to the vessel, our emaciated appearance evidently told the main outlines of our story. They called to the others in a foreign tongue and the whole crew crowded to the rail. One strong fellow jumped into our boat and lifted John up while others reached down to help. Then, with their assistance, I tumbled on board, stiff with cold and with feet like stone. They gave us brandy and took us to the warm cabin where breakfast was being prepared and it is difficult to say which was more grateful, the smell of food or the warmth of the fire. John was put into the captain's bunk. It was a good exchange for he was not far from "Davy Jones' locker." We had been on board only a few hours when the fog rolled back again and continued for some time afterward. The vessel was a French fishing brig from the island of St. Malo in the English Channel. None of the crew understood English and neither of us could speak French, but they understood the language of distress and kindness needs no interpreter. The captain showed me a calendar and 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.