"What's been your lay? I haven't clapped eyes on you for days!"
Hogshead Geoffrey emptied his glass at one go. Leaning his head against the wall, his fists on the table, his legs stretched out, he stared at the ceiling.
The atmosphere of this den in the rue Monge was poisonous with the odours of stale wine and rank tobacco. The musty air was thick, the shop was ill-lighted by one jet of gas in the centre of the room.
"Well, old Scrub," said Geoffrey at last. "You haven't seen me because you haven't!... You remember I passed the Markets' test and was nominated market porter?"
"Jolly well I do!... We had a famous drinking bout that time!"
"That's so, Scrub!... And my sister Bobinette paid the piper!... You remember I was rejected?... Well, I got into the Markets all the same!... Then—one fine day I gave a tallykeeper a regular knock-down-and-outer!"
"You did?"
"Just didn't I?... I gave him such a oner—just like this!"...
Lifting his enormous hairy fist, Hogshead Geoffrey brought it down on the table with disastrous results: the ancient worm-eaten board was split from end to end!
Flattering remarks were showered on this colossus from all sides.