"Are you hungry, kid?" he said genially to Pierre. Pierre looked blank.
The short man punched the tall man in the ribs. "Don't you see he's French," he said derisively. "Did you think you were back home in Illinois? Why don't you try some of your parley-voo on him? You're not getting on with the language; here's your chance for a real Parisian accent."
"Oh, g'wan," answered the tall man. "Try your own French on him! I guess it won't kill him; he looks strong."
The short man came nearer to Pierre and shouted at him as if he were deaf. "Avvy-voo-doo faim?"
Pierre withdrew a step nearer his mother and Pierrette. "Je ne comprends pas!" he said politely. "Pardon."
The tall man took off his cap and rumpled his hair. "Try it again, Jim," he said, "even if he is scared. They look to me like refugees, and as if a good bowl of soup wouldn't strike their insides amiss, but your French would stampede a herd of buffaloes!"
"Try it yourself, then," said the short man, grinning.
The tall man sat down on a box at the door of the tent and beckoned to Pierre. "I say, kid," he began, "avvy-voo-doo-fam—fam?" He rubbed his stomach in expressive pantomime.
"Mamma," cried poor puzzled Pierre, "he asks me if I have a wife, and rubs his stomach as if he had a stomach-ache. What does he mean?"
Mother Meraut came forward, trying hard not to laugh. "Que voulez-vous, Messieurs?" she said politely.