"It's a sure thing, if that's what you're driving at. You can bet on it if you want to."
"I make my bet on de price of de dinnare," smiled Bongras. "Mais, I like to know for sure."
"Why should you doubt it?"
"Moi, I don't doubt nottings; I make de grass to be cut w'ile de sun is shine. But I'll been hearing somebody say dat maybe-so dis town she grow so fas' and so beeg dat de gover'ment is not going drown her."
"Who said that?"
"I don't know; it is bruit—what you call rumaire. You hear it h-on de Avenue, in de café, h-anyw'eres you go."
Brouillard laughed again, this time with his hand on the door-latch.
"Don't lower your prices on the strength of any such rumor as that, Poodles. The dam will be built, and the Niquoia will be turned into a lake, with the Hotel Metropole comfortably anchored in the deepest part of it—that is, if it doesn't get gay enough to float."
"Dat's juz what I'll been thinking," smiled the little man, and he sped the parting guest with a bow that would have graced the antechamber of a Louis le Grand.
Out in the crisp night air, with the stars shining clear in the velvet sky and the vast bulks of the ramparting mountains to give solidity and definiteness to the scheme of things, Brouillard was a little better able to get his feet upon the stable earth.