de Poincilit, in a nice light
tenor, told how
Il etait un roi d'Yvetot
Pen connu dans l'histoire,
Se levant tard, se couchant tot,
Dormant fort bien sans gloire.
The Frenchman took the merry monarch seriously, but the lilting melody
pleased everybody except "Mr. Wood." The "Oh, Oh's" and "Ah, Ah's" of
the chorus apparently stirred him to speech. He strolled from a corner
of the saloon to the side of Gray, the American engineer, and said,
with a contemptuous nod towards the singer:
"What rot!"
"Not a bit of it. He's all right. Won't _you_ give us a song next?"
If Gray showed the face of a sphinx, so did "Mr. Wood," whose real name
was Tollemache. He bent a little nearer.
"Seen the rockets?" he asked.
"No. Are we signaling?"
"Every minute. Have counted fifteen."
"You don't say. Things are in a pretty bad shape, then?"
"Rotten."
"Well, like Brer Rabbit, we must lie low and say nothing."
This opinion was incontrovertible. Moreover, Tollemache was not one
who needed urging to keep his mouth shut. Indeed, this was by far the
longest conversation he had indulged in since he came aboard; nor was
he finished with it.
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