“We have made proper reparation for having mistaken you for our friend, Professor Snodgrass,” he continued, “and that, to a gentleman, should be sufficient. I think that is all, sir!”
Jerry turned stiffly and marched back to his own table, followed by Ned and Bob, who had left their seats to join him. For a few seconds the little bald-headed man did not seem to know what to do. He said something about its being “all right now,” but mingled with this were grunts and mutterings about “insolent puppies,” which words, however, Jerry and his chums thought best to ignore.
“Say, what was eating him, anyhow?” asked Bob, when they had resumed their seats for their dessert which the pretty Marie was then bringing to them.
“I guess you mean what had he been eating,” said Ned. “Red pepper and chili con carne I imagine, with a dish of tabasco sauce and frijoles on the side.”
“Reminds me of our Mexico trip,” interposed Bob. “What was the name of that Spanish fellow who was always making so much trouble?”
“You mean Vasco Bilette,” suggested Jerry.
“That’s it! This fellow, who really looks a lot like our dear, old professor, certainly is touchy.”
“He certainly is,” agreed Jerry. “Say, Bob,” he went on, “you claim you can parlez-vous better than the rest of us. Suppose you ask Marie if she knows this duck.”
“Sure!” assented the stout lad. “Say, chere Marie,” he went on as the pretty little waitress came up to their table, “comprehendez-vous him?” and he pointed to the man who was the cause of the Motor Boys’ discomfiture. For it had been disquieting, to say the least, to have the eyes of all in the restaurant turned on them during the fracas, as Ned termed it.
“Comprehendez-vous him?” asked Bob of Marie. “You know. La petite hommes de la table d’hote,” and to make sure that his “French” would be understood he pointed to the little man.