“Why, what are you up to, eh?” the other asked in his turn.
“Beauty Boy” explained: “To-morrow’s Monday, ain’t it? Well, Tuesday’s the day the swell Trans-Atlantic reaches Hâvre with all the rich American travellers aboard; so I’m going to make my little collection, as usual—you know my game, eh, M. Moche?”
“Gad! no, not over well,” declared the old scamp, doubtless with the idea of extracting a more definite account of the other’s plans.
“But it’s as plain as plain,” retorted the apache. “Day before the boat comes in, I hook it to Hâvre, dressed up to the nines; then I slip into the special train where the swagger dames are, then on the journey up I get to work; it’s mostly purses I do, now and then a ring, a bit of jewelry, or pocket-book. All that lot, when they step ashore, are upset, bewildered, sick, tired, they never care to kick up a dust if they happen to find their pockets have been gone through.”
Père Moche nodded approvingly.
“Not bad,” he laughed, “not bad! You’re a cute chap, my boy, for all your silly looks and dandified airs.”
“Only,” pursued the apache, “one must anyway have one’s return ticket, and as it happens, I’m cleaned out just now.”
“Whew!” muttered the old miser.
But “Beauty Boy” returned to his charge:
“Come now, don’t be a mean cuss, hand me over four bulls, won’t you?”