The man obeyed.
"Thirteen; I was sure of it."
"Well, that's a rum go," said Fleon. "I am positive that there were only twelve."
"There's a baker's dozen now," said Barthes, with his brutal laugh; "the more the merrier."
"Right."
"What are you staring at?"
"I can't make out that thirteenth one."
"Well, I don't see that that's any thing to weep over. Thirteen at dinner is an awkward number, they say; but I dare say that the sharks won't object to it; they're nor so weak-minded as to be superstitious. Ha, ha, ha!"
But still Fleon could not get over this last sack.
"I've got it."