He blinked at Gethryn. “These Frenchmen,” said he, “have as many lives as a cat.”
“Thanks!” said Gethryn, smiling faintly.
“An Englishman! The devil!” shouted the pale-eyed man, hopping in haste from his campstool and dropping a well-thumbed sketching-block as he did so.
“Don’t be an ass,” suggested Gethryn; “you’d much better help me to get up.”
“Look here,” cried the other, “how was I to know you were not done for?”
“What’s the matter with me?” said Gethryn. “Are my—my legs gone?”
The little man glanced at Gethryn’s shoes.
No, they’re all there, unless you originally had more than the normal number—in fact I’m afraid—I think you’re all right.
Gethryn stared at him.
“And what the devil am I to do with this sketch?” he continued, kicking the fallen block. “I’ve been at it for an hour. It isn’t half bad, you know. I was going to call it ‘Love in Death.’ It was for the London Illustrated Mirror.”