human
What news of the Galley-on-land, Admiral?
gpt
All goes well.
human
How many at our oars?
gpt
Two hundred and forty-eight.
human
Besides friends?
gpt
Besides thirty-four friends. We are all in the salt country now except yourselves and the bench at Paris. We reviewed in the pines of Morlaix last month. Such brave ragmen! Forty-seven had killed a hog.
human
Yes, the hogs fear us, but the Galley is dark as wind.
gpt
You should have seen the hogs to-day, cried the cave leader;
human
Why didn't you stick them?
gpt
Sacré Dieu! not here; it's too near the Big Hog.
human
The Big Hog does not worry us at Morlaix. Since the salt-tax is raised four _sous_ in the pound we are all in the Brittany marshes, passing salt into Maine. In Maine a poor man can eat no meat because he can have no brine. You can guess that where the people squeal so there is room for our profit. We lie in the marshes; we gather our piles of salt; we creep out by night through the woods, and--flip--past the salt-guards into Maine. Guards, guards, guards--blue men, black men, green men--all over France. Sacré! they are an itch--a leprosy. Do we hate them, we all?
gpt
By the oath of the Green Cap,
human
Well, we _were_ vagabonds, he continued,
gpt
Yes, we can afford it,
human
I thought so, handsome ragmen,