And remembering bits of rumour about M. Radisson deserting the English
Fur Company, I hastened to add: "Eli Kirke _shall_ not know!"
"Your wits jump quick enough sometimes," said he. "Now tell me, whose
is she, and what value do you set on her?"
I was speechless with surprise. However wild a life M. Radisson led,
his title of nobility was from a king who awarded patents to gentlemen
only.
"We neither call our women '_she_' nor give them market value," I
retorted.
Thereupon M. de Radisson falls in such fits of laughter, I had thought
he must split his baldrick.
"Pardieu!" he laughed, wiping the tears away with a tangled lace thing
fit for a dandy, "Pardieu! 'Tis not your girl-page? 'Tis the ship o'
that hangdog of a New England captain!"
The thing came in a jiffy. Sieur Radisson, having deserted the English
Fur Company, was setting up for himself. He was spying the strength of
his rivals for the north sea.
"You praised my wit. I have but given you a sample."
Then I told him all I knew of the ship, and M. de Radisson laughed
again till he was like to weep.
"How is she called?" he asked.
"The Prince Rupert," said I.
"Ha! Then the same crew of gentlemen's scullions and courtiers' valets
stuffing the lockers full o' trash to trade on their master's account.
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