Presently he beckoned me, stepped into the moss, and crawled without a sound straight through the holly thicket.
“Watch here,” he whispered. “Count a hundred when I disappear, then creep on your stomach to the edge of that bank. In the bed of the stream, close under you, you will see and hear your friend Tric-Trac.”
Before I had counted fifty I heard the Lizard cry out, “Bonjour, Tric-Trac!” but I counted on, obeying the Lizard’s orders as I should wish mine to be obeyed. I heard a startled exclamation in reply to the Lizard’s greeting, then a purely Parisian string of profanity, which terminated as I counted one hundred and crept forward to the mossy edge of the bank, under the yellow beech leaves.
Below me stood the Lizard, intently watching a figure crouched on hands and knees before a small, iron-bound box.
The person addressed as Tric-Trac promptly tried to hide the box by sitting down on it. He was a young man, with wide ears and unhealthy spots on his face. His hair, which was oily and thick, he wore neatly plastered into two pointed love-locks. This not only 244 adorned and distinguished him, but it lent a casual and detached air to his ears, which stood at right angles to the plane of his face. I knew that engaging countenance. It was the same old Tric-Trac.
“Zut, alors!” repeated Tric-Trac, venomously, as the poacher smiled again; “can’t you give the company notice when you come in?”
“Did you expect me to ring the tocsin?” asked the Lizard.
“Flute!” snarled Tric-Trac. “Like a mud-rat, you creep with no sound—c’est pas polite, nom d’un nom!”
He began nervously brushing the pine-needles from his skin-tight trousers, with dirty hands.
“What’s that box?” asked the Lizard, abruptly.