"There! There!" he cried. "Him sees the ogre coming."

Baby ventured to peep round. The little black-eyed, white-capped man came
towards them smiling.—P. 121.
Click to [ENLARGE]

Denny looked up. She saw a rather little man with a white apron and a white cap, carrying a couple of cackling hens or chickens in his arms, coming across the garden from the house. He was on his way to a little sort of poultry-yard, where he had fastened up half-a-dozen live chickens he had bought at the market that morning, meaning to kill two of them for dinner, but finding them not so fat as he had expected, he was putting them back among their friends for a day or two. Very like a real ogre, if Denny and Baby had understood all about it, which they didn't. Denny herself, for a minute or two, felt puzzled as to who this odd-looking man could be. But he was no ogre, that was certain, any way.

"Don't be frightened, Baby, it's not a' ogre," she said. "Look up, he's far too little."

Baby ventured to peep round. The little black-eyed, white-capped man came towards them smiling.

"Bon jour, Mademoiselle, bon jour, Monsieur Bébé," he said, looking quite pleased. And then he stroked down the ruffled feathers of the poor chickens, and held them out to the two children, chattering away at a great rate in Baby's "lubbish talk," hardly a word of which they understood.

"Can he be wanting to sell the chickens?" said Denny.

The cook, who had before this lived with families from England, understood the children's language better than they did his, which, however, is not saying a great deal.

"Yes, Mees, pairfectly," he said. "Me sell zem at ze marché the morning. Fine poulets, goot poulets, not yet strong—wait one, two, 'ree days—be strong for one grand dinner for Madame."