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Nessudikira was a "blanc-bec," aged twenty or twenty-one, who till lately had been a trading lad at Boma now he must not look upon the sea.
She stood a while, looking very earnestly across the wide, black city of tents. "I shall be best away for a time. I grow mad, treacherous, wicked here," she thought. "I will go and see Blanc-Bec." Blanc-Bec was the soldier of the Army of Italy.
"I'll fix the old blanc-bec," growled the boatswain, as the spy slid down the hill toward Rozel Pier. "Take my flask, Jack!" said Alan Hawke. "I don't drink on duty!" simply replied Blunt. "I shall get at work by eleven, and you'll hear from me by midnight! Then, look out only for yourself! The boat is mine, if there's any alarm.
A rustle followed, and an opening of desks; behind the lifted lids which momentarily screened the heads bent down to search for exercise-books, I heard tittering and whispers. "Eulalie, je suis prete a pamer de rire," observed one. "Comme il a rougi en parlant!" "Oui, c'est un veritable blanc-bec." "Tais-toi, Hortense il nous ecoute."
Cholmondeley of my distressed circumstances, and what straits I was put to for an ornament or two somebody, far from grudging one a present, was quite delighted at the idea of being permitted to offer some trifle. You should have seen what a blanc-bec he looked when he first spoke of it: how he hesitated and blushed, and positively trembled from fear of a repulse." "That will do, Miss Fanshawe.
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