  Within an hour he was on the road to Paris, traveling by the diligence. It was his intention to get to Paris as quietly as possible, and for that reason he wore plain citizen’s clothes, and wrapped himself in a large cloak; but Danny Dixon, swelling with the importance of the charge of his commander’s portmanteau, had no notion of letting the great man pass unknown through the world. Danny sat in the rumble along with a very smart and dapper little valet, who was accompanying his master, a French officer, to Paris. As Danny was not by any means as elegant as the Frenchman, he was subject to much contempt, all of which he bore with stoical good humor. The May morning was fresh and beautiful, and as they dashed along the broad and level road they saw green fields on each side of them, and comfortable homesteads in sight, while occasionally a noble chateau reared its towers in proud seclusion, half hidden by great trees. The trees were just budding, and when the diligence rolled occasionally over the moss-grown stone bridges the streams beneath ran over their pebbly beds with the laughing fullness of the spring. The air was deliciously soft and fresh, and as Paul Jones sat on the box seat, inhaling the beauty and glory around him, he felt a subtile joy and satisfaction in life. Presently he looked back to see how Danny was getting on. Danny, with the commodore’s portmanteau tightly clasped between his knees, was looking a picture of satisfaction. “How do you like this?” asked Paul Jones, amused at the boy’s rapt look of enjoyment. “Fust-rate, sir,” answered Danny, touching his cap. “This ’ere’s mightily like being on the topsail yard, sir, and I think she rolls and pitches a good deal. But maybe that’s because she ain’t ballasted right—all the dunnage is aft, sir—” Here Paul Jones frowned at Danny, which immediately checked his eloquence. “Sacre bleu!” said the dandy valet, who was dressed quite as well as his master, and who spoke what he thought was English; “you talk ze rubbish. Your master, he is vidout doubt, a man of seafaring, who goes to home with a hundred louis d’or in his plocket—poket—pocket—for a jollitime.” “He is, is he?” answered Danny wrathfully. “I’ll have you to understand, sir, that I serves Commodore Paul Jones, o’ the Bunnum Richard, what took the S’rapis, and the Britishers has sent out forty-two ships o’ the line and frigates for to ketch him, and they’d ruther have him nor the whole durned French navy, with all your wuthless admirals throwed in.” “You are von saucy boy,” responded the Frenchman angrily; “and as for your Paul Jones, vy, I nevair heard of ze gentilhomme before!” “Well,” replied Danny, very coolly, “I’ll give you something for to remember the fust time you ever heerd of him!” and, without a moment’s warning, he suddenly caught the little Frenchman by the ankle and by the collar, and, jerking him off the seat, held him suspended over the back of the rumble, about five feet from the ground, while the horses galloped along, the postilions cracked their whips, and the white road sped beneath them. As soon as the Frenchman could get his breath he bellowed loudly, but he was afraid to struggle lest Danny should drop him, and he little knew the strength in those young sinews and strong boyish arms. “You ain’t never heerd o’ Commodore Paul Jones,” bawled Danny, “and you never heerd on the Bunnum Richard nor the S’rapis nuther, but I reckon you’ll remember all about ’em next time you hear on’ em!” Danny emphasized these remarks by giving the little Frenchman several tremendous shakes, which terrified him more than ever. The commotion was not heard for a moment or two, on account of the rattling of the diligence and the rate at which they were traveling, but as soon as the affair was noticed cries resounded from the passengers, both to Danny and to the postilions to check the horses. Just as Paul Jones turned around and caught sight of Danny the diligence came to a halt, and, with a final shake, Danny dropped the Frenchman in the road. Quite forgetting himself in the surprise and shock of the occasion, Paul Jones cried out angrily: “What are you doing, sir? Have you lost your mind?” “No, sir,” replied Danny, touching his cap again, “but that ’ere frog-eating landlubber, he had the imperence for to tell me that he ain’t never heerd o’ you, sir, nor of the way you took the Drake and the S’rapis, nor the forty-two British cap’ns as was on the lookout for you, sir; so I jest handed him over the side, sir, meanin’ to hold him there by the slack o’ his trousers till he axed for quarter, sir.” Meanwhile, the Frenchman, sputtering and swearing, had got up from the ground and was brushing the dust off his elegant attire. The French officer, his master, at first disposed to be angry, could not help laughing at Danny’s explanation and the tone in which it was given. He explained it in French, and everybody shouted with laughter, except the unfortunate lackey and Paul Jones, but even Paul Jones could not wholly refrain from smiling. “Behave yourself better in future, sir, and remember it is I who tell you so.” Danny bobbed his head and touched his cap again, saying, “Ay, ay, sir.” But the boy’s words had turned every eye on Paul Jones. Was this slight, dark, quiet man the redoubtable Paul Jones, the terror of the seas, the man that England put forth all her might to capture, but who was still free, still great? Paul Jones’s dark skin flushed under this close scrutiny. The French officer, raising his hat, made a profound bow, and said: “May I ask if we have the honor of addressing the celebrated, the invincible Paul Jones?” “Your compliments do me too much honor,” replied Paul Jones, “but I am the person you have so flatteringly described.” All hope of privacy was now at an end. Every eye was fixed on him, and every ear was open to catch his lightest remark. This was not what Paul Jones desired, and he inwardly chafed at Danny Dixon’s indiscreet devotion that had betrayed him. But Danny was not the boy to let the fact remain in obscurity that he served Paul Jones, and he beamed with delight at the French officer’s words. The poor valet, having brushed the dust off his clothes, now climbed back into the rumble, and the diligence proceeded upon its way. The only word that Danny condescended to address to him was when they alighted two days afterward in the streets of Paris. “Do you know now, Mounseer Landlubber, who Commodore Paul Jones is?” “Parbleu, yes,” sighed the lackey. “I vill not forget ze gentilhomme—nevair, nevair!” |
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