“If it weren’t for old Mo, miss, I don’t know what would happen to our friend Doggie. I got to look after him like a baby, I ’ave. He’s on to relieve guard, and if old Mac—that’s McPhail”—she nodded recognition of the name—“and I hadn’t remembered, miss, he’d ’ave been in what yer might call a ’ole. Compree?”
“Oui. Yes,” she said. “Garde. Sentinelle.”
“Sentinel. Sentry. Right.”
“He—was—late,” she said, picking out her few English words from memory.
“Yuss,” grinned Mo.
“He—guard—house?”
“Bless you, miss, you talk English as well as I do,” cried the admiring Mo. “Yuss. When his turn comes, up and down in the street, by the gate.” He saw her puzzled look. “Roo. Port,” said he.
“Ah! oui, je comprends,” smiled Jeanne. “Merci, monsieur, et bon soir.”
“Good night, miss,” said Mo.
Some time later he disturbed Phineas, by whose side he slept, from his initial preparation for slumber.