After another thorough search the three boys started to ascend the ladder. Just as Clif, who was last, reached the conning tower, a shrill, queer voice broke out behind him:
“C’est epatant qu’en Angleterre.
Y’ait des Anglais.”
It was a snatch of a recent popular Parisian air!
The cadets stood as if turned to stone. The voice came from almost directly under their feet. And the tone! And the words!
Clif felt his hair tingle, and a cold shiver run down his back. It was uncanny, to say the least.
Trolley, ordinarily jolly, had an expression much like that of a man who had met a ghost in a dark wood. And Joy was not a whit better.
“Guess the d-d-darned thing’s too much for me,” he said, shakily. “Suppose we go on deck and th-think it over?”
“Not much,” replied Clif, but with no great emphasis. “There’s a man down there somewhere, either sick or crazy, and it’s our duty to find him.”
“Where in thunder is he? We’ve searched the confounded place from deck to ceiling.”