"I think we would better tell Monsieur Lebrenn of this affair, and ask his opinion."
Still a fourth whispered a few words in the ear of the ragpicker, who answered:
"I think so, too. It would be no more than he deserves. It may be a wholesome example. But while we wait, send me Flameche to help me mount guard over this bad Parisian."
"Halloa, Flameche!" called a voice. "Come and help father Bribri hold a thief."
Flameche ran to the ragpicker. He was a true Parisian gamin. Wan, frail, wasted away by want, the lad, who was gifted with an intelligent and bold face, was sixteen years of age, but looked only twelve. He wore a dilapidated pair of trousers, and old shoes to match, and a blue sack coat that hung in shreds from his shoulders; for weapon he carried a saddle-pistol. Flameche arrived jumping and leaping.
"Flameche," said the ragpicker, "is your pistol loaded?"
"Yes, father Bribri. It is loaded with two marbles, three nails and a knuckle-bone—I rammed all my toggery into it."
"That will do to settle the gentleman if he but budges. Listen, my friend Flameche—finger on trigger, and barrel in vest."
With these words Flameche neatly inserted the muzzle of his pistol between the shirt and the skin of the thief. Seeing that the latter tried to resist, Flameche added: