“À bas Caracal!”
“Vive Vieillecloche!”
Phil, who was reading a newspaper as he passed along, looked up with astonishment.
He was in front of the entrance of a music-hall. On a strip of cotton cloth he read, in huge letters, “PUNCH d’INDIGNATION!” The name of Vieillecloche was displayed everywhere, mingled with the flags which covered a good half of the theatrical posters of acrobats, jugglers, and clowns.
“The flag covers the goods!” Phil said, as he saw this assemblage of patriotism and fakery. “Vieillecloche is at his old tricks; what a humbug!”
Phil stopped. Confused imprecations against impostors and grafters came to his ears between the bang! bang! of the door, pushed one way or the other by the public and clanging back into its place.
Bang! “Vive Vieillecloche!”
Bang! “À bas!” Bang! “Traitors! Sold out!” Bang! “À bas Caracal!” Bang! bang!
“Hello!” said Phil. “‘À bas Caracal’? What does that mean? I must go in.”
He entered.