“You can stow that chat,” said the boy; “I have told your father the price I would take. You want my station and stock-in-trade. Hand over two hundred and fifty francs, and they are yours.”
“But my dad will only give two hundred,” returned the other.
“Then he don’t need give nothing, for he won’t get ‘em,” answered the chestnut vender sharply. “Two hundred francs for a pitch like this! Why, I have sometimes taken ten francs and more, and that ain’t a lie, on the word of Toto Chupin.”
Andre was tickled with this strange designation, and addressed himself to the lad who bore it.
“My good boy,” said he, “I think you were here an hour ago. Did you see anything of three gentlemen who came out of the house and stood talking together for a short time?”
The lad turned sharply round and examined his questioner from tip to toe with an air of the most supreme impertinence; and then, in a tone which matched his look, replied,—
“What does it signify to you who they are? Mind your own business, and be off!”
Andre had had some little experience of this delightful class of street arab, of which Toto Chupin was so favorable a specimen, and knew their habits, customs, and language.
“Come, my chicken,” said he, “spit it out, it won’t blister your tongue, to answer a man who asks a civil question.”
“Well, then, I saw ‘em, sharp enough, and what then?”