“Humph!” grunted Uncle Paul. “Not quite such a scoundrel as he might have been, whoever it is that wrote it. Exchange, eh? But there’s been no exchange about our clothes. Humph! All in French, of course. If he had been a gentleman, and he couldn’t understand plain English, he would have written it in Latin. Bah! How I do hate that pernicketty French! Let’s see—let’s see. Oh yes, here it all is. Ask pardon for two poor prisoners trying to escape—um, um, um—years of misery. Generous Englishman—some day—remerciments. Ah, it’s all scribbled horribly—in the dark, I suppose. Oh, he’s signed it, though, Pickle. ‘Des Saix, Comte.’ Oh, there are two of them, then. The other’s signed his name too—quite a different hand. ‘Morny des Saix, Vicomte.’ H’m! Well, I suppose they are gentlemen.”
“Noblemen, uncle.”
“Bah! Noblemen wouldn’t do a thing like that!”
“What are those other words, uncle, under the last name?”
“Um—um—um! ‘May God bless you for what you did to-day. Your friend till death.’ Why, Pickle, you ought to have been able to read that yourself.”
“I did, uncle, but I wanted to be sure that I was right. Why, that must have been the boy I helped to escape.”
“Yes, and he dodged us home, and as good as robbed us.”
“Oh, uncle! Shame!”
“How dare you, sir! What do you mean by it, Rodney? Do you forget who I am, sir?”
“No.”