He was a
wonder to us, and his plans were discussed at every meal, and in every
watch below. In the dog-watches he would come forward, with his
eternal questions: "What is wizzin? In ze contry?" We would tell him,
"Indians, or highwaymen," or "a push of highbinders;" and he would
answer: "It ees nozzin, it ees a fool." Once he asked us if we had
heard of any gold being found "wizzen." "Gold?" said one of us.
"Gold? O' course there's gold, any God's quantity. Them Incas ate
gold; they're buried in it." "'Ave you know zem, ze Incas?" he asked
eagerly. "I seen a tomb of theirs once," said the sailor; "it were in
a cove, like the fo'c'sle yonder, and full of knittin'-needles." "What
is zem?" said the Frenchman. The sailor shambled below to his chest,
and returned with a handful of little sticks round which some balls of
coloured threads were bound. "Knittin'-needles," said the sailor.
"Them ain't no knittin'-needles. Writin'? How could them be writin'?
Well, I heard tell once," replied the other. "It ees zeir way of
writing," said the Frenchman; "I 'ave seen; zat is zeir way of writing;
ze knots is zeir letters." "Bleedin' funny letters, I call 'em," said
the needles-theorist.
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