He caught me looking at him, and smiled.
“Well,” said he, “shall we go along?”
“Where?”
“On that little expedition we spoke of last night.”
“Oh!” I remembered now. “But—is n't it—do we want to go to such a place now—in the day-time?”
He raised his eyebrows. “You old sybarite!” he chuckled, and hummed, “Et la nuit, tous les chats sont gris!” Then he added, more seriously:
“But really, Eckhart, three ships are in to-day—the Pacific Mail and the French finer besides ours—and if we wait until evening we shall have no choice at all.”
“Very well,” said I then, briskly, for I do not like to be ridiculed. “Just wait until I can get my phonograph.”
“Your what?” said he.
“My phonograph,” I repeated, with dignity. And I went upstairs for ft.