“Eh bien?”
“Something funny, mordieu! Yes, when you see it you’ll stare.”
“Well, what is it? You keep on like an old woman; if you found anything funnier than yourself it would be queer.”
“Well, then, come and look and you will see.” Yves rose to his feet, kicked the crabs into a heap, spread the sail on the sand, and placing the crabs in the sail, made a bundle of them; having tied the bundle with a rope he placed it in the shadow of the palms.
“That will keep them safe till we come back,” said Yves, “allons.”
He led the way right across the islet to the north.
It was scarcely a quarter of a mile wide, this islet, and covered from shore edge to shore edge with thick bay-cedar bushes rising to the knees. The only trees upon it were the palms. Those seven palms gathered in the clump beneath whose shade the Moco had been lying.
The breeze, which had freshened momentarily, had now died again, and as they tramped through the dense growth the sun, now passing into the western sky, struck them on their left sides so that they could have sworn they were walking side turned to an open furnace door. But they were used to heat and neither of them grumbled, or only occasionally the Moco.
“Well, this is a nice tramp to see something funny; it seems to me the funny thing is that we should be sweating ourselves like this; if you could shew me a decent bar at the end of our journey—”
“Come on,” replied Yves; “you will not be sorry when you see it.”