"I certainly remember saying '_Je suis blessé_'," admitted Flemming, who was beginning to feel a bit dubious as to whether what he had said was what he meant to say. "That did it," continued Mr. Armitage. "I knew it would happen before very long. '_Je suis blessé_' is not 'I'm blessed' but 'I am wounded'. Hurry up and go below and get dressed properly." The discomfited Flemming beat a hasty retreat amidst the laughter of his companions. CHAPTER XII "In the Ditch" The French Scouts remained on board for another half-hour. They inspected and were duly impressed by the _Olivette_ and her equipment; they exchanged confidences with their brother Sea Scouts, to whom difference of nationality counted for little as far as the Universal Brotherhood of Scouts went. Before they took their departure, the French boy's invited the _Olivette's_ crew to a picnic at Equeurdreville--a seaside hamlet a few miles to the west of Cherbourg--on the following morning. "I do not think we shall be able to accept," said Peter. "We are sailing for Havre early to-morrow, if all's well." One of the French Patrol Leaders shrugged his shoulders and threw out the palms of his hands in a characteristic Gallic attitude. "I do not think you vill sail," he remarked. "Why not?" asked Stratton. The lad pointed in the direction of Fort l'Onglet, above which a cone, point uppermost, had been hoisted to the yard-arm of a mast. "_Regardez bien!_" he exclaimed. Mr. Armitage, following the direction of the French Patrol Leader's outstretched finger, noted the signal. It meant that bad weather--a gale from the nor'ard--was approaching. If any confirmation were necessary the barometer proved it. The glass had fallen four-tenths in less than a couple of hours. "There's one thing," observed Stratton, after the visitors had taken their departure. "It's one of those short, sharp summer gales: 'Long foretold, long last, Short warning, soon past'. It's a good thing we're in a secure harbour." Flemming made a wry face. "It's too much of a good thing," he protested. "I've never, never been in a basin before, and this one's quite enough. Doesn't it whiff?" "It does," admitted Peter. "Now you come to mention it, there is an odour of sorts." "And those little bounders the French ragamuffins," continued Eric. "The stuff lying on the decks is only a small part of what they threw. I cleared up three times before the Cherbourg Scouts came upon the scene and chased them off. Hello, what's this coming?" The lock gates were open and a large tramp steamer was being warped into the Bassin-à-Flot. From where the _Olivette_ lay, the steamer's stern was masked by the rise of her deckhouse and bridge, but the ensign was just visible--a dirty, wind-frayed, coal-grimed piece of red bunting with a Union Jack in the upper quarter next the staff.