“Oh, dere’s a market all right. And so I took seex of ’em at t’ree t’ousan’ francs—F.O.B., of course.”
“F.O.B., of course,” nodded his accomplice with a smile, and Gaveston looked down at the couple, fascinated by their strange redolence of sin. What vileness, he wondered, were the old traffickers discussing in their thievish cabalistic slang?[9]
[9] Mr. Budd’s sense of picturesque detail occasionally led him astray, though never more than is pardonable in a young novelist. As a close neighbour of the great industrial North of England, he would have been deeply interested to know that the gentlemen he here portrays in a somewhat sinister light are in reality the London representatives of two of the most prominent textile houses of Lille, a city which has been wittily (though not by Mr. Budd) described as the “Manchester of France.” (Lit. Exec.)
But his reflections were broken with an unexpectedness worthy of the scene. Suddenly he felt a hand touch his shoulder.
Who could it be?
He turned.
CHAPTER V
GUERRILLA
“Why, Monty!” he cried delightedly.