"Susanne's, duffer!"
"Mine?" asked the astounded Frenchman. "It's the first I've heard of it."
"There's a oner. Never heard of it, when only a minute ago he was telling us of his friends and how they'd ask us to lunch with 'em," shouted Masters. "Don't tell us you've forgotten, Susanne."
"Ask me to lunch. I never said a word about you fellows. It was you who suggested the thing. Oh, yes, I dare say there'll be a blow-out for me," said Susanne complacently. "But for you, doubtful. You fellows had better sneak some bread and cheese at supper the night before and carry a store with you."
He grinned provocatively at them, and then calmly tackled a roasted apple. "Yes," he reflected, "I've no doubt I shall meet one friend at least. There's Levallois, a flyer. My word, he can fly! He comes from Lyons, and'll be awfully glad to see me."
"Us," suggested Masters desperately.
"Me. What's he want to know you for? I shall go off to lunch with him as a matter of course. It'll be sickening to leave you fellows, naturally, and no one'll be more sorry than I, er—er—or you—but then, there it is."
So saying he buried his teeth in the apple, taking not the smallest notice of the glaring eyes of his comrades.
"Of all the selfish beggars!" began Masters, whose energy was always pronounced when there was a question of food. "Susanne don't deserve to come with us. It's sickening to hear him jaw about a feed all for himself, and to listen to him advising us to take chunks of bread as hard as bricks, and cheese that's only fit for use as cart grease. It's simply sickening."
His disgust was great—so great, in fact, that he might have pressed the question still further, thereby bringing about a termination of the hitherto comparatively pleasant nature of the meeting. But the practical Bert intervened.