"Savve the lingo?" Del demanded.
"Yes; but so poorly, so miserable," Courbertin demurred. "It is a long
time. I forget."
"Go ahead. We won't criticise."
"No, but--"
"Go ahead!" the chairman commanded.
Del thrust the book into his hands, opened at the yellow title-page.
"I've been itching to get my paws on some buck like you for months and
months," he assured him, gleefully. "And now I've got you, you can't
shake me, Charley. So fire away."
Courbertin began hesitatingly: "'_The Journal of Father Yakontsk,
Comprising an Account in Brief of his Life in the Benedictine Monastery
at Obidorsky, and in Full of his Marvellous Adventures in East Siberia
among the Deer Men_.'"
The baron looked up for instructions.
"Tell us when it was printed," Del ordered him.
"In Warsaw, 1807."
The pocket-miner turned triumphantly to the room. "Did you hear that?
Just keep track of it. 1807, remember!"
The baron took up the opening paragraph. "'_It was because of
Tamerlane_,'" he commenced, unconsciously putting his translation into
a construction with which he was already familiar.
At his first words Frona turned white, and she remained white
throughout the reading. Once she stole a glance at her father, and was
glad that he was looking straight before him, for she did not feel able
to meet his gaze just them.
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