Honk returned to his Juliette. She had retired to her balcony and refused to descend. Honk lifted his voice appealingly from the street:
"H'I say! Down't ye' be h'afeered—'e won't come back, an' 'e wouldn't 'urt ye when h'I'm 'ere. Come h'on down!"
But Juliette was obdurate, and turned a deaf ear to his entreaties.
"Merci—je ne descends point!" she returned. This was about as intelligible to Honk as Chinese script, but he understood the shake of the head all too well.
"Blast 'im," he grumbled; "them bloomin' blokes what drinks is goin' to 'ave th' 'ole bleedin' town h'about our h'ears. Th' gals won't look at a decent feller soon." And he forthwith went to drown his sorrow in a mug of beer.
Honk's complaint was soon verified by the facts. Jogman's fame flew from house to house with such infernal rapidity that in less than twenty-four hours the French had learned an English phrase which it cost our lads several months of good conduct to eradicate. It was simple and to the point: "Canadians no good!" For weeks afterward it was shouted at them every time they entered the village. The populace gathered in little groups close to their own homes, while a few of the more timid locked themselves in and shouted through the shutters these same humiliating words.
As Jogman was brought in to the Guard Room, Barker caught a glimpse of him.
"Well," Barker cried in scathing criticism; "the colonel said I wuz th' first t' disgrace th' unit. By cripes; I wuzn't th' last. You sure made a good job uv it!"
The colonel was a busy man. His day was as varied and colourful as Job's coat. When it wasn't the vegetable woman who had to be bartered with, it was the iceman who sought, with true French business acumen, to show him why he wasn't really overcharged, although the bill was three times what the natives had to pay.
"Alvred" had been installed as "Interpreter," and throughout all these ridiculous and unsatisfactory arguments maintained a face as impassive as an English butler at a club dinner.