When he called a conference, he must needs
muster to the quarter-deck by beat of drum, with a tipstaff, having a
silver bauble of a stick, leading the way. This office fell to
Godefroy, the trader, a fellow with the figure of a slat and a scalp
tonsured bare as a billiard-ball by Indian hunting-knife. Spite of
many a thwack from the flat of M. de Radisson's sword, Godefroy would
carry the silver mace to the chant of a "diddle-dee-dee," which he was
always humming in a sand-papered voice wherever he went. At beat of
drum for conference we all came scrambling down the ratlines like
tumbling acrobats of a country fair, Godefroy grasps his silver stick.
"Fall in line, there, deputy-governor, diddle-dee-dee!"
La Chesnaye cuffs the fellow's ears.
"Diddle-dee-dee! Come on, marquis. Does Your High Mightiness give
place to a merchant's son? Heaven help you, gentlemen! Come on! Come
on! Diddle-dee-dee!"
And we all march to M. de Radisson's cabin and sit down gravely at a
long table.
"Pot o' beer, tipstaff," orders Radisson; and Godefroy goes off
slapping his buckskins with glee.
M. Radisson no more takes off his hat than a king's ambassador, but he
waits for La Chesnaye and Foret to uncover. The merchant strums on the
table and glares at the marquis, and the marquis looks at the skylight,
waiting for the merchant; and the end of it is M.
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