“Eh! They—when I say ‘they’ I mean him!”
“Well, who is he?”
“The old guardian of the Louvre roofs.”
“Ah, yes,” said Phil; “I saw him at Mère Michel’s. And so you’re his gardener?”
“I am—that is, I was!”
An idea came to Phil. He was stifled in his room; he might have—up there, close by—a garden to himself.
“Dis donc, old Poufaille, what if they gave me the gardener’s place?”
“That could be done easily; but I warn you—you’ll have no right to cultivate potatoes!”
“I’ll be content with flowers.”
“What eccentricity!” Poufaille exclaimed, in the height of astonishment. “Ah, you’re very American!”