Steps creaked somewhere, and the old man looked at him through spectacles placed on the end of his nose. Andrews recognized the irregular face full of red knobs and protrusions.
“Thanks very much,” he said.
All three looked at him silently for some time. Then the old man pulled a newspaper out of his pocket, unfolded it carefully, and fluttered it above Andrews's eyes. In the scant light Andrews made out the name: “Libertaire.”
“That's why,” said the old man, looking at Andrews fixedly, through his spectacles.
“I'm a sort of a socialist,” said Andrews.
“Socialists are good-for-nothings,” snarled the old man, every red protrusion on his face seeming to get redder.
“But I have great sympathy for anarchist comrades,” went on Andrews, feeling a certain liveliness of amusement go through him and fade again.
“Lucky you caught hold of my rope, instead of getting on to the next barge. He'd have given you up for sure. Sont des royalistes, ces salauds-la.”
“We must give him something to eat; hurry, Maman.... Don't worry, he'll pay, won't you, my little American?”
Andrews nodded his head.