“I say—are you sure?”
“Eh?” exclaimed Byfield, waking up and coming forward with a stagger.
“The English Channel.”
“The French fiddlestick,” said he with equal promptness.
“O, have it as you please!” I retorted. It was not worth arguing with the man.
“What is the hour?”
I told him that my watch had run down. His had done the same. Dalmahoy did not carry one. We searched the still prostrate Sheepshanks: his had stopped at ten minutes to four. Byfield replaced it and underlined his disgust with a kick.
“A nice lot!” he ejaculated. “I owe you my thanks, Mr. Ducie, all the same. It was touch and go with us, and my head’s none the better for it.”
“But I say,” expostulated Dalmahoy. “France! This is getting past a joke.”
“So you are really beginning to discover that, are you?”