“Ah, ha! it is grand—it is superb!” cried Monsieur Bagasse. “Missr Harrin’ton, he can keek wis me, he can fence wis me, he can shoot wis me, he can engage wis me in ze broadsword—ze single-steek, he can do everysing so I can. It is his talent. Sacrebleu! He is for-r-mi-dabble.”
Harrington laughed, with an expression and gesture of deprecation.
“How many men could you fight together, Monsoor?” asked Palmer.
“Me? I fight you all. Evairy one. Togezzer,” replied the Frenchman.
“Mawdoo!” ejaculated Palmer. “Isn’t he a trump!”
“Come, Bagasse, that will do for the marines,” said Wentworth. “You can’t do it.”
“Ah,” replied the fencing-master, “you zink not? Bah! Come, I show you.”
In a minute he had seven or eight of them, Wentworth, Vukovich, Palmer and Fisk included, masked and foiled. Then putting his back to the wall, he directed them to set upon him. It was agreed that if he was touched the contest was to end there. On the other hand, every combatant touched was to withdraw.
“Pardoo! It is splendid!” exclaimed Palmer.