“M’sieu?”
“What d’ye mean, strolling about like that? You’re a gentleman of means, eh?”
“No, m’sieu, I’m strolling because ...”
“Right oh! D’ye care to earn six sous an hour? you know how to hold a shovel?”
“Yes, m’sieu; yes, I’m willing.”
“Come with me then!”
The man who had hailed Fandor, as the journalist was finishing his circuit of the lake and had now reached the Racing Club enclosure, was evidently a roadman of the city of Paris. He wore the flat, silver-laced cap of the roads department, he had the heavy gait of an employé in that service, and the same good-natured look:
“If I take you on,” he explained, leading Fandor towards the further end of the lake, near the Rond Royal, “it’s along of a pressing job, for to-morrow’s fête. I want hands.”
“There’s a fête to-morrow?” Fandor asked.
“And a smart one, I can tell you, my lad! a fête on the lake in honour of I don’t know what good Dutch folks, who are paying an official visit to Paris. Seems they’re going to take ’em on the water. It’s the municipality gives the show. Now I got my notice only just in time; so I’ve not been able to get my men together, and I’m glad enough to find outsiders like you to give a hand.”