Raymond turned abruptly, and walked to a garden seat beneath the window of the hotel dining room. He moved with a curious swing of the legs, as though his knees were unequal to the task of supporting his body.
Popple followed hastily. "W'at's up?" he cried. "Are ye feelin' bad? Been doin' too much, I s'pose."
"No. It's nothing. Could you—call a maid? If I have a sip of brandy—and rest awhile—the weakness will pass."
The skipper bustled into the hotel and found a waitress. "Cognac—queek!" he said.
The girl smiled. She understood fully.
"Oui, Monsieur," she said.
But Popple deemed the matter urgent. "Gentleman eel—vare seek," he insisted.
"Yes, Sir," said the maid, to her hearer's profound surprise. "I've got you. I'll be along before you can say 'knife.'"
"Sink me!" roared Popple. "Here have I been spittin' French all this time, an' you can sling the right stuff at me in that style!"
He received another broad smile, and the linguist vanished. Thenceforth the two held long conversations when they met; but some days elapsed before Popple realized that the chat was rather one-sided. The girl had been taught a few slang phrases by an American artist, which, together with a fairly comprehensive knowledge of the average tourist's requirements, completed her vocabulary.