“But . . .”
Patrice was stupefied. The boat had turned in its own length and was making for the bank.
“But, I say, I say,” he said, “what’s this? Are you going back? Are you giving up? . . . I don’t understand. . . . You’re surely not afraid because they’re three to our two?”
Don Luis leapt on shore at a bound and stretched out his hand to him. Patrice pushed it aside, growling:
“Will you explain what it all means?”
“Take too long,” replied Don Luis. “Just one question, though. You know that book I found in old Siméon’s room, The Memoirs of Benjamin Franklin: did you see it when you were making your search?”
“Look here, it seems to me we have other things to . . .”
“It’s an urgent question, captain.”
“Well, no, it wasn’t there.”
“Then that’s it,” said Don Luis. “We’ve been done brown, or rather, to be accurate, I have. Let’s be off, captain, as fast as we can.”