"Ain't you goin' out?" queried the gaunt figure, folding its arms, that is, the fingers of each hand grasped the elbows of the other arm.
"De fogs is too moch," responded Judas, picking up another bit of coal, "an' I am chez moi for a frien'."
"Oh, that's it, munseer," said the head-jailer, rattling her keys, "you're expectin' of a friend! Why ain't you goin' back to the shop?"
"Eh! ma chère, non! I am home to-ni."
"You'll want the fire, I suppose," remarked Mrs. Binter, grudgingly, as if she would like to take it away with her, "an' the lamp. I was goin' to put 'em both out, but if you must, you must. Would your friend like supper?"
"Je ne sais pas," said Monsieur Judas, putting down the tongs and shrugging his shoulders. "No! I do no so tink."
"Supper's extra, you know," observed Mrs. Binter, determined to have out of the supper what she was losing in the lamp and fire; "but it ain't hospital to let a friend go away without a bite. It may be French manners," added the jailer with scathing irony, "but it ain't English."
Monsieur Judas spread out his hands with a deprecating gesture, murmured something indistinct, and then relapsed into silence, much to the disappointment of Mrs. Binter.
"There's two legs of a fowl," said the lady, rattling her keys. "Binter was goin' to have 'em for his breakfast; but I can trim 'em up with parsley, if you like, an' with bread an' cheese an' a bottle of that sour vinegar you call Julia, it'll be quite a little 'oliday for you."
Just at this moment the bell rang, and Mrs. Binter hastening to the front door, admitted Mr. Fanks, took him in charge, and having delivered him over to the safe custody of Monsieur Judas, retired with a final rattle of the keys in deep wrath at her failure with the supper idea.