La Chesnaye, son of the merchant prince who owned our ships, played cock-o’-the-walk, took rank next to M. Radisson, and called himself deputy-governor.  Foret, whose father had a stretch of barren shingle on The Labrador, and who had himself received letters patent from His Most Christian Majesty for a marquisate, swore he would be cursed if he gave the pas to La Chesnaye, or any other commoner.  And M. de Radisson was as great a stickler for fine points as any of the new-fledged colonials.  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. Radisson must give Godefroy the wink, who knocks both their hats off at once, explaining that a landsman can ill keep his legs on the sea, and the sea is no respecter of persons.  Once, at the end of his byplay between the two young fire-eaters, the sea lurched in earnest, a mighty pitch that threw tipstaff sprawling across the table.  And the beer went full in the face of the marquis.

“There’s a health to you, Foret!” roared the merchant in whirlwinds of laughter.

But the marquis had gone heels over head.  He gained his feet as the ship righted, whipped out his rapier, vowed he would dust somebody’s jacket, and caught up Godefroy on the tip of his sword by the rascal’s belt.

“Foret, I protest,” cried M. Radisson, scarce speaking for laughter, “I protest there’s nothing spilt but the beer and the dignity!  The beer can be mopped.  There’s plenty o’ dignity in the same barrel.  Save Godefroy!  We can ill spare a man!”

With a quick rip of his own rapier, Radisson had cut Godefroy’s belt and the wretch scuttled up-stairs out of reach.  Sailors wiped up the beer, and all hands braced chairs ’twixt table and wall to await M. Radisson’s pleasure.