“For God's sake, Fardet, try and keep him in play,” said he. “I believe we have a chance if we can only keep the ball rolling for another hour or so.”
But a Frenchman's wounded dignity is not so easily appeased. Monsieur Fardet sat moodily with his back against the palm-tree, and his black brows drawn down. He said nothing, but he still pulled at his thick, strong moustache.
“Come on, Fardet! We depend upon you,” said Belmont.
“Let Colonel Cochrane do it,” the Frenchman answered, snappishly. “He takes too much upon himself, this Colonel Cochrane.”
“There! there!” said Belmont, soothingly, as if he were speaking to a fractious child. “I am quite sure that the Colonel will express his regret at what has happened, and will acknowledge that he was in the wrong——”
“I'll do nothing of the sort,” snapped the Colonel.
“Besides, that is merely a personal quarrel,” Belmont continued, hastily. “It is for the good of the whole party that we wish you to speak with the Moolah, because we all feel that you are the best man for the job.”
But the Frenchman only shrugged his shoulders and relapsed into a deeper gloom.
The Moolah looked from one to the other, and the kindly expression began to fade away from his large, baggy face. His mouth drew down at the corners, and became hard and severe.
“Have these infidels been playing with us, then?” said he to the dragoman. “Why is it that they talk among themselves and have nothing to say to me?”