“I don't know what it is,” said Peter, “but it isn't French. I know that.” Then he saw what it was that the crowd had for its centre. It was a man--the man, Peter did not doubt, who had spoken in that strange tongue. A man with long hair and wild eyes, with shabby clothes of a cut Peter had not seen before--a man whose hands and lips trembled, and who spoke again as his eyes fell on Peter. “No, it's not French,” said Peter. “Try him with French if you know so much about it,” said the farmer-man. “Parlay voo Frongsay?” began Peter, boldly, and the next moment the crowd recoiled again, for the man with the wild eyes had left leaning against the wall, and had sprung forward and caught Peter's hands, and begun to pour forth a flood of words which, though he could not understand a word of them, Peter knew the sound of. “There!” said he, and turned, his hands still clasped in the hands of the strange shabby figure, to throw a glance of triumph at the crowd; “there; THAT'S French.” “What does he say?” “I don't know.” Peter was obliged to own it. “Here,” said the Station Master again; “you move on if you please. I'LL deal with this case.” A few of the more timid or less inquisitive travellers moved slowly and reluctantly away. And Phyllis and Bobbie got near to Peter. All three had been TAUGHT French at school. How deeply they now wished that they had LEARNED it! Peter shook his head at the stranger, but he also shook his hands as warmly and looked at him as kindly as he could. A person in the crowd, after some hesitation, said suddenly, “No comprenny!” and then, blushing deeply, backed out of the press and went away. “Take him into your room,” whispered Bobbie to the Station Master. “Mother can talk French. She'll be here by the next train from Maidbridge.” The Station Master took the arm of the stranger, suddenly but not unkindly. But the man wrenched his arm away, and cowered back coughing and trembling and trying to push the Station Master away. “Oh, don't!” said Bobbie; “don't you see how frightened he is? He thinks you're going to shut him up. I know he does--look at his eyes!” “They're like a fox's eyes when the beast's in a trap,” said the farmer. “Oh, let me try!” Bobbie went on; “I do really know one or two French words if I could only think of them.” Sometimes, in moments of great need, we can do wonderful things--things that in ordinary life we could hardly even dream of doing. Bobbie had never been anywhere near the top of her French class, but she must have learned something without knowing it, for now, looking at those wild, hunted eyes, she actually remembered and, what is more, spoke, some French words. She said:-- “Vous attendre. Ma mere parlez Francais. Nous--what's the French for 'being kind'?” Nobody knew. “Bong is 'good,'” said Phyllis. “Nous etre bong pour vous.”