Thus encouraged, I turned to Auguste.
“Where do you keep your boots?”
“Sac à papier!” growled the old man. “On my feet. Where else?”
“But when you go to bed at night?”
“Under my bed.”
“But who cleans them?”
“Nobody. Why should they be cleaned? Is it that I promenade myself on the front like a young man? On Sunday I wear the Sunday boots, bien entendu, but otherwise—!” he shrugged his shoulders.
I shook my head, discouraged.
“Well, well,” said the magistrate. “We do not advance very much. Undoubtedly we are held up until we get the return cable from Santiago. Has any one seen Giraud? In verity that one lacks politeness! I have a very good mind to send for him and—”
“You will not have to send far, M. le juge.”