“Ah! Josef,” he says, reaching out to relieve the new-comer, “a nice load that; a very nice load!”
But the man addressed as Josef retains his hold upon his burden, and, resting himself against it, looks distrustfully at his host.
“It’s been a fine evening, Josef,” insinuates the old man, his eyes still fixed upon the bag.
“Fair enough,” replies Josef gruffly, as he unties the bag and pushes it toward the old man. “Take a look at the stuff, Papa Francoise, and make a bid. I’m dead thirsty.”
Eagerly seizing the bag, Papa Francoise drags it toward the table, closely followed by Josef, and begins a hasty examination of its contents, saying:
“Rags is rags, you know, Josef Siebel. It’s not much use to look into ’em; there’s nothing here but rags, of course.”
“No, course not,” with a satirical laugh.
“That’s right, Josef; I won’t buy nothing but rags,—never. I don’t want no ill-gotten gains brought to me.”
Josef Siebel utters another short, derisive laugh, and discreetly turns his gaze toward the smoky ceiling while Papa begins his investigations. From out the capacious bag he draws a rich shawl, hurriedly examines it, and thrusts it back again.
“The rag-picker can be an honest man as well as another, Josef,” continues this virtuous old gentleman, drawing forth a silver soup-ladle and thrusting it back. “These are very good rags, Josef,” and he draws out a switch of blonde hair, and gazes upon it admiringly. Then he brings out a handful of rags, examines them ostentatiously by the light of the candle, smells them, and ties up the bag, seeing which Josef withdraws his eyes from the cobwebs overhead and fixes them on the black bottle upon the shelf.