When Tric-Trac had satisfied himself concerning the situation, he returned to devour his food.
“Flute! Zut! Mince!” he observed; “you and your bad manners, they sicken me—tiens!”
The Lizard, flat on his stomach, lay with the massive steel box under his chin, patiently turning the needle from figure to figure.
“Wonderful! wonderful!” sneered Tric-Trac. “Continue, my friend, to put out your eyes with your fingers!”
The Lizard continued to turn the needle backward and forward around the face of the dial. Once, when he twirled it impatiently, a tiny chime rang out from within the box, but the steel lid did not open.
“It’s the Angelus,” said Tric-Trac, with a grimace. “Let us pray, my friend, for a cold-chisel—when my friend Buckhurst returns.”
Still the Lizard lay, unmoved, turning the needle round and round.
Tric-Trac having devoured the cheese, bread, and an entire pheasant, made a bundle of the remaining food, emptied the cider-jug, wiped his beardless face with his cap, and announced that he would be pleased to “broil” a cigarette.
“Do you want the gendarmes to scent tobacco?” said the Lizard.
“Are the ’Flics’ out already?” asked Tric-Trac, astonished.