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Updated: May 4, 2025
To date, however, there appeared to have been no rush on the part of the canny inhabitants of Lexingham to avail themselves of this chance of a breath of fresh air. M. Feriaud, a small man with a chubby and amiable face, wandered about signing picture cards and smoking a lighted cigaret, looking a little disappointed. Albert Potter was scornful. "Lot of rabbits," he said. "Where's their pluck?
"Lead me to him," he said simply. Roland sneezed. "Doe accident, thag you," he replied miserably. "Somethig's gone wrong with the worgs, but it's nothing serious, worse luck." M. Feriaud, having by this time adjusted the defect in his engine, rose to his feet, and bowed. "Excuse if we come down on your lawn. But not long do we trespass.
"The blighter goes up," he explained, as he conducted the party into the arena, "and then he stands on his head and goes round in circles. I've seen pictures of it." It appeared that M. Feriaud did even more than this. Posters round the ground advertised the fact that, on receipt of five pounds, he would take up a passenger with him.
He was not given a chance to forget, and the only way in which he could obtain a momentary diminution of the agony was to increase the speed to sixty miles an hour. It was in this fashion that they journeyed to the neighboring town of Lexingham to see M. Etienne Feriaud perform his feat of looping the loop in his aeroplane.
He was feeling more wretched than he had ever felt in his life. He had a severe cold. He had a splitting headache. His hands and feet were frozen. His eyes smarted. He was hungry. He was thirsty. He hated cheerful M. Feriaud, who had hopped out and was now busy tinkering the engine, a gay Provencal air upon his lips, as he had rarely hated any one, even Muriel Coppin's brother Frank.
In some curious fashion, without doing anything to merit it, he had apparently become an object of scorn and derision to the party. "All right, then, I will," he said suddenly. "Easy enough to talk," said Albert. Roland strode with a pale but determined face to the spot where M. Feriaud, beaming politely, was signing a picture post-card.
The negotiations with the bird-man had lasted a little longer than one would have expected. But then, of course, M. Feriaud was a foreigner, and Roland's French was not fluent. He took Muriel's hand. "Good-by," he said. He shook hands with the rest of the party, even with Albert Potter.
"But you say take me to France with you " "I know. But it's all off. I'm not feeling well." "But it's all wrong." M. Feriaud gesticulated to drive home his point. "You give me one hundred pounds to take you away from Lexingham. Good. It is here." He slapped his breast pocket.
It was Brother Frank's idea that they should make up a party to go and see M. Feriaud. Frank's was one of those generous, unspoiled natures which never grow blasé at the sight of a fellow human taking a sporting chance at hara-kiri. He was a well-known figure at every wild animal exhibition within a radius of fifty miles, and M. Feriaud drew him like a magnet.
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