As Carterette turned round to him he was twirling a cake on the wooden fork, and trolling:
“Caderoussel he has a coat,
All lined with paper brown;
And only when it freezes hard
He wears it in the town.
What do you think of Caderoussel?
Ah, then, but list to me:
Caderoussel is a bon e’fant—”
“Come, come, dirty-fingers,” she said. “Leave my work alone, and stop your chatter.”
The daft one held up his fingers, but to do so had to thrust a cake into his mouth.
“They’re as clean as a ha’pendy,” he said, mumbling through the cake. Then he emptied his mouth of it, and was about to place it with the others.
“Black beganne,” she cried; “how dare you! V’la—into your pocket with it!”
He did as he was bid, humming to himself again:
“M’sieu’ de la Palisse is dead,
Dead of a maladie;
Quart’ of an hour before his death
He could breathe like you and mel
Ah bah, the poor M’sieu’
De la Palisse is dead!”
“Shut up! Man doux d’la vie, you chatter like a monkey!”
“That poor Maitre Ranulph,” said Dormy, “once he was lively as a basket of mice; but now—”