Sad to relate, neither Thibout nor Moinard was ended. The guillotine
stood on its rights. Meantime, what was left of them crawled back to the
town stiff and sore, and supped together--Moinard on liquids only--and
vowed revenge on all wrecked people.
The three reached Boulogne in time for the _Nancy,_ and put Dodd on
board: the pair decided to go to the Yankee Paradise--Paris.
They parted with regret and tenderly, like old tried friends; and
Vespasian told Dodd, with tears in his eyes, that though he was in point
of fact only a darned Anemo, he felt like a coloured gemman at parting
from his dear old Captain.
The master of the _Nancy_ knew Dodd well, and gave him a nice cot to
sleep in. He tumbled in with a bad headache and quite worn out, and never
woke for fifteen hours.
And when he did wake, he was safe at Barkington.
He and It landed on the quay. He made for home.
On the way he passed Hardie's bank, a firm synonymous in his mind with
the Bank of England.
A thrill of joy went through him. Now it _was_ safe. When he first sewed
It on in China, It seemed secure nowhere except on his own person.
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