"The skipper of the Stella is a bon garçon, and showed his gratitude," said Peridot. "I could have carried the liquor like a drum major if I hadn't fasted at Le Pouldu so as to keep a good appetite for supper."
"Ah! That's it, is it? Well, I'll make matters straight with Monsieur Ingersoll in the morning."
Tollemache had every reason to believe that the fisherman was speaking the truth. He had not seen Peridot intoxicated during five years of fairly close acquaintance.
"The worst thing is that Madeleine will be holding her nose in the air every time she meets me for a month," came the dejected whine.
"I'll tell her too how the accident happened. You'll be joking about it yourself tomorrow, old fellow."
"Tiens! I've got it," and Peridot stood stock still in an attitude of oracular gravity. "Monsieur Ingersoll was angry, not because I was a trifle elevated, but on account of what I said about Ma'mselle Yvonne. Queer thing if that lady should really be her mother!"
"Now I know for certain that you're drunk as an owl."
"Not me! Gars! Funny things occur. I could say lots if I chose. Why does Monsieur Ingersoll encourage Ma'mselle to dress en Bretonne? Why won't he allow her to be photographed? Who has ever heard what became of Madame Ingersoll? And aren't those two the image of each other?"
"Peridot," said Tollemache, "it would be a sad finish to a glorious day if I were to knock you down."
"It would, Monsieur."