M. Innerarity replied, with a profane parenthesis, that it was he.
"You kin hask Sylvestre!" he concluded.
The doctor's eye passed around a semicircle of some eight men, the most of whom were quite young, but one or two of whom were gray, sitting with their arms thrown out upon the wash-board, in the dark négligé of amateur fishermen and with that exultant look of expectant deviltry in their handsome faces which characterizes the Creole with his collar off.
The mettlesome little doctor felt the odds against him in the exchange of greetings.
"Ola, Dawctah!"
"Hé, Doctah, que-ce qui t'après fé?"
"Ho, ho, compère Noyo!"
"Comment va, Docta?"
A light peppering of profanity accompanied each salute.
The doctor put on defensively a smile of superiority to the juniors and of courtesy to the others, and responsively spoke their names: