And as by this time Jones was calming down and was rather inclined to cry, Lampert came up to the restive crowd. "You dry up, Hart," he said roughly. "Until the ship's broken up, you're on the articles. Say another word and I'll break your jaw." "Yes, sir," said Hart respectfully. Until dawn they loafed about the deck and in the cabin and foc'sle, discussing whether they were on one of the Crozets or what, and whether they would stay long there, and if so what, and so on. And just as the dawn broke over the island they got an awful surprise. They saw a man standing on the low cliff on about a level with the jagged splinters of the fore-topmast where it had gone short in the cap. "The bloomin' hisland's in'abited," cried a foremast hand, and every one rushed forward to interview the gesticulating stranger. "Wod's the bloke say?" asked the crowd. "Oh, say it again!" And the stranger said it again. But the crowd shook a unanimous head. "I believe the silly galoot don't talk English," cried Hart; "'ere, where's Dutchy?" They shoved their one "Dutchman" forward, and after some interchange of utter un-intelligibilities, listened to by every one with bated breath, Hermann turned round. "I not versteh, captain. I denk him ein French." The Frenchman was joined by two or three more, and then by a dozen. "Why, they're all French," said the disgusted crowd. "What's Frenchmen doin' on any island of ours?" And until the sea went down, which it did sufficiently to allow them to get ashore at about ten o'clock, they discussed the question as to whether the Crozets were English or not. It was settled by old Mackenzie. "All islands as don't belong to any one belongs to us," he said; "it was arranged so by Disraeli." They got ashore with some risk, and were greeted by the Frenchman in the most amiable way. "Poor beggars!" said the crew; "it must be 'ard on a soft lot of things like them to be on a des'late hisland. Ain't it a wonder Froggies ever goes to sea? But does they belong 'ere, or was they piled hup same's hus?" Hart found himself alongside a Frenchman with a long red Liberty cap on, and a big pair of ear-rings in his ears. "Goddam," said the Frenchman. "That's what we say," cried Hart. "Here, you chaps, he speaks English." "Hurrah!" said the crowd. "I spike Engelish," nodded the stranger. "How'd you come 'ere?" asked the eager chorus. The Frenchman nodded. "Goddam!" he said, smiling. "Ship! Por'smout'--London! I spick En'lish." "Well, then," said Hart desperately, "just dry up with your mixed hogwash, and spit it all out free as to 'ow you came 'ere, and wot the name o' this bally rock is, and who's its in'abitants. Now, give it lip!" "Hart's a nateral born speaker, and 'as a clear 'ead," said the crowd. "'E puts it in a nutshell, and don't run to waste in words." But the Frenchman looked puzzled. "Comb wiz," he said; "spik En'lish besser," and he pointed over the low rise.