92 MYSTIC ISLES 



gave me an acquaintance with a group of habitues. 

 When I reached the balcony I saw a group of French- 

 men at a table who were singing at the top of their 

 voices. I sat down at the farthest table and ordered 

 a Dr. Funk. 



I did not look at them, for I felt de trop; but suddenly 

 I heard them humming the air of "John Brown's Body," 

 and singing fugitive words. 



"Grory, grory, harreruah!" came to my ears, and 

 later, "Wayd' 'un S' ut ' in le land de cottin." 



They were making fun of me I thought, and turned 

 my head away. It would not do to get angry with half 

 a dozen jovial Frenchmen. 



"All Coons Look alike to Me," I recognized, though 

 they sang but fragments of the text. 



Through a corner of my eye I saw them all anxiously 

 staring at me; then one of the merrymakers came over 

 to me. I had a fleeting thought of a row before he 

 bowed low and said in English : 



"If you please, we make good time, we sing your 

 songs, and must be happy to drink with j^ou." 



He announced himself as M. Edmond Brault, chief 

 clerk of the office of the secretary-general, fresh-faced, 

 glowing and with a soul for music and for joy. He was 

 so smiling, so ingenuous, that to refuse him would have 

 been rank discourtesy. I joined the group. 



"I am twenty-eight times married this day," said M. 

 Brault, "and my friends and I make very happy." 



The good husband was rejoicing on his wedding anni- 

 versary, and I could but accept the champagne he or- 

 dered. 



