“Supposition that you are correct; what of it?” said the young ruffian, calmly.
“Did you bring me anything to chew on?” inquired Tric-Trac, sniffing at the poacher’s sack.
“Bread, cheese, three pheasants, cider—more than I eat in a week,” said the Lizard, quietly. “It will cost forty sous.”
He opened his sack and slowly displayed the provisions.
I looked hard at the iron-bound box.
On one end was painted the Geneva cross. Dr. Delmont and Professor Tavernier had disappeared carrying red-cross funds. Was that their box?
“I said it costs forty sous—two silver francs,” repeated the Lizard, doggedly.
“Forty sous? That’s robbery!” sniffed the young ruffian, now using that half-whining, half-sneering form of discourse peculiar alike to the vicious chevalier of Paris and his confrère of the provincial centres. Accent and slang alone distinguish between them; the argot, however, is practically the same.
Tric-Trac fished a few coins from his pocket, counted carefully, and handed them, one by one, to the poacher.