"So you turn up your sanctified nose at Ben Chacherre, do you?" exclaimed that person jauntily. He thrust his hat a bit farther over one ear, and proceeded to snap his fingers under the nose of Lacroix.
"A vaurien, am I? Old peacock! Lead me to the man who cashes checks, lackey, brass buttons that you are! Come, obey me, or I'll have you thrown into the street!"
"You—you wish to cash a check?" The guard was overcome by confusion, for the loud tones of Chacherre penetrated the entire institution. "But you are not known here——"
"Bah, insolent one! Macaque dan calebasse—monkey in the calabash that you are! Do you not know me?"
"Heaven preserve me! I will not answer for your accursed checks."
"Go to the devil, then," snapped Chacherre, and turned away.
His roving eyes had already found the correct window by means of the other persons seeking it, and now he stepped into the small queue that had formed. When it came his turn, he slid his check across the marble slab, tucked his thumbs into the armholes of his vest, and impudently stared into the questioning, coldly repellent eyes of the teller.
"Well?" he exclaimed, as the teller examined the check. "Do you wish to eat it, that you sniff so hard?"
The teller gave him a glance. "This is for a thousand dollars——"
"Can I not read?" said Chacherre, with an impudent gesture. "Am I an ignorant 'Cajun? Have I not eyes in my head? If you wish to start an argument, say that the check is for a hundred dollars. Then, by heaven, I will argue something with you!"