“Well, there’s one thing I like about you, you’re frank, to say the least of it.”
This remark seemed greatly to incense Mac, who, perhaps, misunderstood the meaning of the word frank.
“When y’ve been in the waurld as long as I have, surrounded on ivry side by scoondrels and robbers, y’ll maybee be as fraunk as mysel’. Fraunk.—wid ye give me a defineetion of the waurd—fraunk! I wid have ye to understand I’m an hoenest mon with hoenest men, but I’m a scoondrel wi’ scoondrels. Fraunk!” And so he went on, his Scotch accent deepening as deepened his excitement, till at last he broke down into Gaelic, and thundered his remarks at the hibachi, slapping his thigh as he did so, and wakening the echoes of the house, which was resonant as a fiddle. So that by the time he had got to the end of his exordium, Leslie saw a panel waver back an inch, and the lady of the camellia peeping in to see what the Learned One was shouting about.
“Keep your hair on,” said Leslie, when Mac, with a final “Fraunk!” delivered in English, began to refill and light his pipe. “I didn’t mean to insult you; I only meant to say I like your open-heartedness.”
“Ay, I was ever that to those I had a liking for.”
“I meant more precisely your open-mindedness—but no matter, let’s talk of something else. I wonder where they’ve put the kid, and oh, by Jove! I wonder if they’ve got that dragon. Sing out and ask, like a good chap.”
Mac clapped his hands, and “Hai tadaima!” came as a response.
It was worth the trouble of clapping one’s hands to hear that sweet reply.
A moment later, a panel slid back and the camellia lady appeared.
Campanula San was asleep, and at that very moment Wild-cherry-bud was in search of the Hon. Dragon, with orders to leave no confectioner’s stall unvisited till she had secured him.