“Do you know much about the Chinese?” Dave inquired.
“Not enough to make me like ’em a precious lot,” replied Pembroke.
“I wish I could understand their lingo,” muttered Dalzell.
“And I’m positively proud that I don’t!” glowed Mr. Pembroke.
They had halted at the water’s edge, now, Dan turning his eyes in the direction of the breakwater to see if he could make out the launch for which he and his chum waited.
“Here comes a fuzzy-fuzzy boat,” announced Dalzell, at last. “But it’s not ours. Just as it happens, the craft is a Frenchman.”
Pembroke cast a glance at the approaching launch, then went on chatting with Darrin.
Presently the launch ran in alongside, a middle-aged French officer stepping up on the jetty not fifty feet from where Dave and his companions stood.
The Frenchman started rather visibly when his gaze rested on Pembroke. Dave noticed that. And Pembroke saw the Frenchman, for one fleeting instant. Then the Englishman turned his back squarely, while the French naval officer, holding himself very erect, and with a frown on his face, returned the courteous salute of the young American officers.
“Do you know that gentleman, Mr. Pembroke?” Dave asked quietly.