"That's 'im. He can quelle-heure-est-il all right."
It struck Scholar that the Frenchman's English might be none so bad.
"Have you been asleep?" he asked.
The Frenchman looked at him with something of astonishment.
"Yes, I sleep," he replied. "Some time, I know not how long." He put his hand to his watch pocket, then sat bolt upright again. "My watch!" he screamed. "My watch gone! Pooh!" and he waved his hands.
Cockney was now hanging stupidly round one of the stanchions at the foot of the Frenchman's bunk, looking on as might a drunk doctor at a patient.
"Your watch pooh?" he said. "O, isn't that a 'ell of a shame! I once 'ad a watch meself." He slipped down the stanchion as though it were a greasy pole, so far as the top bunk would allow him, and laying his forehead on the back of his hand made a sound as of anguish. The Frenchman's eyes were upon him, staring; he looked at Scholar; he pointed a finger at Cockney's bowed head.
"Dronk? Eh?" he said. But he was not really thinking about Cockney's state. "What I do?" he asked of the rivet-studded ceiling, and answered himself: "Nozing!"
"Was there anything important in your valise?" asked Scholar.
"Important? Suit of clothes, for go home."