“What does he say?”
“I don't know.” Peter was obliged to own it.
“Here,” said the Station Master again; “you move on if you please. I'LL deal with this case.”
A few of the more timid or less inquisitive travellers moved slowly and reluctantly away. And Phyllis and Bobbie got near to Peter. All three had been TAUGHT French at school. How deeply they now wished that they had LEARNED it! Peter shook his head at the stranger, but he also shook his hands as warmly and looked at him as kindly as he could. A person in the crowd, after some hesitation, said suddenly, “No comprenny!” and then, blushing deeply, backed out of the press and went away.
“Take him into your room,” whispered Bobbie to the Station Master. “Mother can talk French. She'll be here by the next train from Maidbridge.”
The Station Master took the arm of the stranger, suddenly but not unkindly. But the man wrenched his arm away, and cowered back coughing and trembling and trying to push the Station Master away.
“Oh, don't!” said Bobbie; “don't you see how frightened he is? He thinks you're going to shut him up. I know he does—look at his eyes!”
“They're like a fox's eyes when the beast's in a trap,” said the farmer.
“Oh, let me try!” Bobbie went on; “I do really know one or two French words if I could only think of them.”
Sometimes, in moments of great need, we can do wonderful things—things that in ordinary life we could hardly even dream of doing. Bobbie had never been anywhere near the top of her French class, but she must have learned something without knowing it, for now, looking at those wild, hunted eyes, she actually remembered and, what is more, spoke, some French words. She said:—