"Shut the door."
"My dog and little cart are there—with the swag."
"What do you bring me? folded tripe (stolen sheet-lead)?"
"No, Micou."
"It is not dredge, you are too cunning now; you are no longer a ravageur; perhaps it is iron?"
"No, Micou; it is copper. There must be at least one hundred and fifty pounds; my dog has as much as he can draw."
"Go and bring the stuff; we will weigh it."
"You must help me, Micou; I have a lame arm."
"What is the matter with your arm?"
"Nothing—a bruise."