"But you say--take me to France with you----"
"I know. But it's all off. I'm not feeling well."
"But it's all wrong." M. Feriaud gesticulated to drive home his point.
"You give me one hundred pounds to take you away from Lexingham. Good.
It is here." He slapped his breast pocket. "But the other two hundred
pounds which also you promise me to pay me when I place you safe in
France, where is that, my friend?"
"I will give you two hundred and fifty," said Roland earnestly, "to
leave me here, and go right away, and never let me see your beastly
machine again."
A smile of brotherly forgiveness lit up M. Feriaud's face. The generous
Gallic nature asserted itself. He held out his arms affectionately to
Roland.
"Ah, now you talk. Now you say something," he cried in his impetuous
way. "Embrace me. You are all right."
Roland heaved a sigh of relief when, five minutes later, the aeroplane
disappeared over the brow of the hill. Then he began to sneeze again.
"You're not well, you know," said Mr. Windlebird.
"I've caught cold. We've been flying about all night--that French ass
lost his bearings--and my suit is thin.
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