Gaston that brought the tears down his swollen cheeks. So that Gaston, moved to pity, and forgetting that he was not amongst his own French comrades, instead of shaking hands with Hubert in due form, ran forward, impulsively, like a thorough French boy, and, throwing his arms round the vanquished’s neck, kissed him warmly on each cheek.
This action, so natural to Gaston, was greeted with a general howl of disgust from the on-lookers.
“Oh, I say, shut up, Mamselle Gaston!”
“Oh, you awful French frog!”
“Oh, drop your beastly slobbering, do!”
These, and various other exclamations, couched in more direct, and less poetical terms, were hissed and hurled at poor Gaston for full three minutes, before he realised the nature of his offence.
“Now, I say, you fellows,” sneered Andrew, “I think he’ll be ‘Mamselle Gaston’ for the rest of his natural life; fancy any decent fellow behaving in such a way.”
“Yes, really you French boys must be awful muffs,” said Phil.
“Of course they are,” said Andrew, spitefully, “and Gaston is the king of muffs, eh, mamselle?”