"Parlez-vous
Franshay? Ah, oui, oui! Give--kith, ole girl!"
"You'd better go below, Miss Lashcairn," said the schoolmaster in a low
voice. "It's no use talking to an intoxicated man."
She knew he was speaking, but she felt mesmerized by Louis, and shook
her head impatiently, never taking her eyes for an instant from the
boy's dribbling mouth.
"Give's--kith--kith--kisssh," he said solemnly after a great effort,
managing to close his mouth. "Baisez-moi--ole girl! Ah, oui, oui! Ole
girl--I shay, ole girl--voulez-vous coucher avec moi?"
He caught her arm and held it tight, grinning into her face. She stood
with set face, trembling.
"What does he mean?" she asked the schoolmaster, who was looking
distressed.
"He is speaking French--I--don't quite"--he coughed nervously--"I don't
quite understand him--it isn't classical French. But I should go below.
He will be better to-morrow."
Louis turned to him solemnly, his jaws working.
"G-g-go to--school!" he cried, and giggled helplessly. "You
w-w-white-livered k-k-kidpuncher! Are you after her yourself? G-god
damn you, you're always sniffing about after her."
"I wish you would go below," said the schoolmaster. "Men when
intoxicated say things unfit for the ears of young ladies. You go away
and leave him to me, Miss Lashcairn."
"Louis, you trusted me to take care of you," she said in a low voice.
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