If lightning had fallen at Phil’s feet he would have been less surprised. So he was the robber cuckoo and Poufaille was the young genius! Now he understood the meaning of the “Punch d’Indignation.”
“That’s what you’ve done to me!” Poufaille cried, quite beside himself. “You would hinder me from flying with my own wings. I had something here” (and Poufaille gave himself a tremendous blow on the forehead), “I had something here—and you robbed me of it!”
“Your cows—” Phil began in distress, “it was a joke I wanted to play on Caracal. I bought the picture and signed it—that is true. But was it yours? I didn’t know it.”
“You didn’t know it! Doesn’t one know the mark of the lion?”
“My good Poufaille, let me explain it to you—let me—” Phil all but stammered; (it was not easy to tell Poufaille that his picture had been used as a scarecrow)—“let me explain it to you.”
“We’ll have the explanation in public,” Poufaille shouted.
“Only let me tell you, my dear Poufaille—”
But Poufaille would listen to nothing. He only knew that he was perishing of hunger while another was stealing his glory. In his rage fragments of the speech came back to him in chance words: “Les autochtones!—young genius—you have deposited in the bosom of glory an autochtone’s egg—do you understand?—an autochtone’s egg!”
“Poufaille,” Phil said gravely, “if I have done you wrong, I swear it was not done wilfully. How much do you think your cows are worth? I’ll give you whatever you ask.”
“Money!” Poufaille answered indignantly. “You dare offer me money to purchase my silence!”