He stood erect, wrapped in the rags of a long coat which hung about his legs, bareheaded and barefooted.
And his little hand, diving into the sack, brought out an enormous piece of coal.
The orange juice had rolled down his chin to his coat. The coat had a pocket. The little fellow took a clean handkerchief from this pocket and carefully wiped both chin and coat. Then he proudly put the handkerchief back.
“What is your father’s work?” I asked.
“He is poor.”
“Yes, but what does he do?”
The orange fisher shrugged his shoulders.
“He doesn’t do anything, he is poor.”
My inquiries into his family affairs did not seem to please him. He turned away from the quay and I followed him. We came in a moment to the “shelter,” a little square of sea which holds the small pleasure yachts—the neat little boats all polished wood and brass, the neat little sailors in their irreproachable toilettes. My ragamuffin looked at them with the eye of a connoisseur and seemed to find a keen enjoyment in the spectacle. A new yacht had just been launched and her immaculate sail looked like a white veil against the blue sky.