“Yes, my fren', I am. Do you know French?”
“Not me,” returned Captain Cable, affably. “They're all one to me. They're all damn nonsense.”
He was, it seemed, that which is called in these days of blatant patriotism a thorough Englishman, or a true Blue, according to the social station of the speaker.
The gentleman to whom the translation had been addressed smiled. He was a tall and rather distinguished-looking man, with bushy white hair and mustache. His features were square-cut and strong. His eyes were dark, and he had an easy smile. He led the way to some chairs which had been placed near a table at the far end of the lawn beneath a cedar-tree, and his manner had something faintly regal in it, as if in his daily life he had always been looked up to and obeyed without question.
“Tell him that we also are plain men with clean hands,” he said.
And the banker replied:
“Oui, mon Prince.”
But the interpretation was taken out of his mouth by one of the others, the youngest of the group—a merry-eyed youth, with a fluffy, fair mustache and close-cropped, flaxen hair.
“My father,” he said, in perfect English, “says that we also are plain men, and that your hands will not be hurt by touching ours.”
He held out his hand as he spoke, and refused to withdraw it until it had been grasped, rather shame-facedly, by Captain Cable, who did not like these effusive foreign ways, but, nevertheless, rather liked the young man.