“Well, well,” said M. Morrel, “I know there was no one in fault but destiny. It was the will of God that this should happen, blessed be his name. What wages are due to you?”
“Oh, don’t let us talk of that, M. Morrel.”
“Yes, but we will talk of it.”
“Well, then, three months,” said Penelon.
“Cocles, pay two hundred francs to each of these good fellows,” said Morrel. “At another time,” added he, “I should have said, Give them, besides, two hundred francs over as a present; but times are changed, and the little money that remains to me is not my own, so do not think me mean on this account.”
Penelon turned to his companions, and exchanged a few words with them.
“As for that, M. Morrel,” said he, again turning his quid, “as for that——”
“As for what?”
“The money.”
“Well——”
“Well, we all say that fifty francs will be enough for us at present, and that we will wait for the rest.”
“Thanks, my friends, thanks!” cried Morrel gratefully; “take it—take it; and if you can find another employer, enter his service; you are free to do so.”
These last words produced a prodigious effect on the seaman. Penelon nearly swallowed his quid; fortunately he recovered.
“What, M. Morrel!” said he in a low voice, “you send us away; you are then angry with us!”
“No, no,” said M. Morrel, “I am not angry, quite the contrary, and I do not send you away; but I have no more ships, and therefore I do not want any sailors.”