“Eggs,” exclaimed the curé in delight as a familiar word broke upon his ear in the first utterance of a sentence. “Hens lay eggs.”
“Yes,” said the sergeant, “hens and eggs go together; but good gracious, you’ve got me off the track, and if I go to explain my meaning to you, you’ll get all tangled up in a chicken-coop. Forget it, mussoo.”
“Forget eggs; no, I remembare,” said the curé reproachfully.
“I guess I’ll have to dispose of that,” said the sergeant desperately. “What did I want to use the old expression for? Hens are useful creatures;” and to expedite matters he began to flap his arms and cluck, and then brought his hands near the ground to measure off the dimensions of a hen of respectable appearance.
“Eggs are good for eating,” said the curé amiably.
“Yes, fine,” said the sergeant; and he drew a handful of silver from his pocket. “Do you see that?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Money—good stuff to have—well, I’ve a lot of it—heaps;” and he began to build an airy pyramid on the ground. “Savings, you know, and a little I had left me by my parents—enough to educate a boy.”
“Yes, I comprehend,” said the curé, delighted beyond measure at his own keenness; “you sell eggs, you make money. One does it in France. One sells all things.”
“All right,” said the sergeant philosophically. “Have me sell eggs or anything you like, the money is there, anyway, and the boy is welcome to it. Hello, here he is. Come here, lad, and dash this off to your protector. You are now in America, you start for France in a few hours; you may stay there six weeks, or six months, or six years, or all your life; but unless you hear from us that we have forgotten you or changed our minds, you’re at liberty to come here and live with us at any time. Do you understand that?”