Rodier read the paragraph to the end.

"My word, it is bad business," he said. "These cannibals!... And they
have no arms. What horror!"

Smith left him abruptly and walked to the fence to see how the work of
dismantling it was proceeding. Rodier whistled, and thrusting his
hands into his pockets, sat down on a bag of straw and appeared to be
deep in a brown study. Sounds of hammering came from the fence; a
light breeze was scattering the mist, and he could now see clearly the
three men under the farmer's direction carefully removing the fencing
beneath the aeroplane. Rodier watched them for a few minutes, but an
onlooker would have gathered the impression that his thoughts were far
away.

Suddenly he sprang up, muttering, "Ah! On peut le faire, quand même.
Courage, mon ami!" and hastened to rejoin his employer.

"What distance, mister," he said, "from here to there--to the
cannibals?"

"Thirteen thousand miles, I suppose, more or less."

"Ah!" the Frenchman's face fell. "Thirteen thousand!" he repeated,
then was silent for a while, touching his brow as if making some
abstruse calculation. Smith turned away.

"Ah! Qu'importe?" cried Rodier, after a few moments. "On peut le
faire!"