THE LOVE OF MONSIEUR
same finical bundle of superficialities. Slapped once in the face, ye turn your cheek with new avidity for more. Zoons! I’ve no patience with such shilly-shallyin’.” And, as Bras-de-Fer was silent, he sent forth a quick succession of smoke puffs which chased madly down the wind.
“Ask Jacquard,” he growled again; “he likes it no more than I. There’s a mutterin’ forward. ’Tis discipline—the lack of drink and an unequal partitionin’ of the spoils—”
“Pardieu!” interrupted the Frenchman at last, his eyes flashing in a fury. “Do they growl? Let them do it in the forecastle. No man, no, not even you, shall beard me on my quarter-deck!”
Cornbury did not arise or show the least sign of a changed countenance. “Ask Jacquard,” he repeated again.
Bras-de-Fer swung hotly on his heel and went below.
