They separated at the landing-place, and for the next two hours Rodd was making himself acquainted with the principal streets of the old seaport, time going very rapidly and the night coming on.
It was growing pretty dark, and after making two mistakes as to their direction, Rodd declared that he knew the way, and his uncle yielding to his opinion, the boy led on, till, turning a corner sharply, they almost came in contact with a couple of French officers walking in the opposite direction, the one a tall, stern, elderly-looking man, talking in a low excited tone to his young companion, whose attention was so much taken up as he deferentially listened to his elder, that he started back to avoid striking against Rodd, who also gave way.
It was now almost dark, and the next moment the French officers had passed on, as Uncle Paul exclaimed—
“Yes, I believe you are right, Pickle. You are. Those are ships’ lights hoisted up to the stays. Well, don’t you see?”
“Yes, uncle, but—”
The boy said no more, and Uncle Paul laid his hand upon his shoulder.
“What’s the matter?” he cried. “Why don’t you speak? Those are the lights in the harbour.”
“Yes—yes. Yes, uncle, I see,” said the boy hastily; “but—er—but—er—”
“Why, what’s the matter with you? Don’t feel done up?”
“No, uncle,” replied Rodd hurriedly. “I was only puzzled; it seemed so strange.”