At Marchand’s words Barbazon shrugged his shoulders. “The more spent to-night, the less to spend to-morrow,” he growled.
“But there’s going to be spending for a long time,” Marchand answered. “There’s going to be a riot to-morrow, and there’s going to be a strike the next day, and after that there’s going to be something else.”
“What else?” Barbazon asked, his beady eyes fastened on Marchand’s face.
“Something worth while-better than all the rest.” Barbazon’s low forehead seemed to disappear almost, as he drew the grizzled shock of hair down, by wrinkling his forehead with a heavy frown.
“It’s no damn good, m’sieu’,” he growled. “Am I a fool? They’ll spend money to-night, and tomorrow, and the next day, and when the row is on; and the more they spend then, the less they’ll have to spend by-and-by. It’s no good. The steady trade for me—all the time. That is my idee. And the something else—what? You think there’s something else that’ll be good for me? Nom de Dieu, there’s nothing you’re doing, or mean to do, but’ll hurt me and everybody.”
“That’s your view, is it, Barbazon?” exclaimed Marchand loudly, for the crowd was now almost at the door. “You’re a nice Frenchman and patriot. That crowd’ll be glad to hear you think they’re fools. Suppose they took it into their heads to wreck the place?”
Barbazon’s muddy face got paler, but his eyes sharpened, and he leaned over the bar-counter, and said with a snarl: “Go to hell, and say what you like; and then I’ll have something to say about something else, m’sieu’.”
Marchand was about to reply angrily, but he instantly changed his mind, and before Barbazon could stop him, he sprang over the counter and disappeared into the office behind the bar.
“I won’t steal anything, Barbazon,” he said over his shoulder as he closed the door behind him.
“I’ll see to that,” Barbazon muttered stolidly, but with malicious eyes.