“Good day to you, mates all,” he greeted the angry crowd, and said no more for the moment. But, after a brief pause, seeing looks of anger and suspicion scanning him from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head, he added in a whining voice:
“Beg pardon, but we’d be better elsewhere: suppose we adjourn to the deck of the Marie-Salope (the dredger) over there?”
All agreed; only “Bull’s-eye” slipped in a question: “There’s nobody there?”
A general shout reassured him: “Why, who’d ever dare to come?”
Still, by way of further precaution, “Big Ernestine” climbed down into the lighter, moored in the wake of the dredger, into which the buckets when working emptied their contents. Another minute and the woman was up again, satisfied with her inspection, and declaring:
“All clear!”
But Moche now pointed out that they were wasting precious time, gassing without saying anything to the point.
“We’re here to talk business, so let’s begin.”
The company took seats as they best could, some on the bulwarks, some on the deck-planks of the dredger, forming a circle in the middle of which Père Moche took his stand—and the trial opened. “Trial” is the right word, for truly the speaker was pleading for his life before his judges seated round him, whom even a superficial observer would have found no difficulty in recognizing as ready to go to the most violent extremities.