"Oui, m'sieur."
"Here's some. When can we get it?"
"To-morrow morning, at the ten o'clock. And does m'sieur wish ze repassage—what you call ir-ron?"
"What's the charge?" asked Mr. Grigsby.
"Seex dollair the dozen, m'sieur, for ze wash; the same for ze ir-ron."
"There goes your newspaper money, Adams," laughed the Frémonter. "I think I'll do my own washing, after this."
"We have to live, my wife and I, messieurs," explained the Frenchman, spreading his hands. "In France we live on ze very little. In New York we have one très bon café, and we charge ze very little. But out here——" and he shrugged his shoulders. "We wash, and for zis meesairable caban—what you call it? hut—we pay ze price of 500 dollair ze month."
"Wash what we've brought, but don't you dare to iron them; eh, Grigsby?" said Mr. Adams.
"Ze rough wash it shall be, messieurs," bowed the stout Frenchman.
"On the trap trail we washed twice a year—spring and fall," commented Mr. Grigsby, as they trudged out. "That's plenty often enough here, too, the way prices run."