“Conflans-Ste.-Honorine.”
“Where's that?”
The boy flourished his whip vaguely towards the horse's head.
“All right,” said Andrews.
“These are potatoes,” said the boy, “make yourself comfortable.'' Andrews offered him a cigarette, which he took with muddy fingers. He had a broad face, red cheeks and chunky features. Reddish-brown hair escaped spikily from under a mud-spattered beret.
“Where did you say you were going?”
“Conflans-Ste.-Honorine. Silly all these saints, aren't they?”
Andrews laughed.
“Where are you going?” the boy asked.
“I don't know. I was taking a walk.”