Charles. Yes, that’s it,—the contemptible wretch ... the scoundrel! ... The same low cad who got me in for three weeks’ solitary last year. Far worse than the maddest dog, or the most savage tiger!
John. The fellow never will learn to understand that a couple of rix-dollars are worth far more than his so-called official honour, which involves him in the constant risk of incurring a thrashing.
Fournichon. But what has happened, after all? Surely, gentlemen, you did not come running here in such haste to tell me that you got into quod last year?
Charles. What has happened? Nothing, strictly speaking ... but a whole lot may happen.
John. And that must be prevented,—and that is why we have come to seek comfort, counsel, and help from the hospitable Fournichon.
Charles. I’ll tell you all about it. We were just coming quietly and comfortably from lecture together, when we passed a baker’s shop, when the servant girl was just washing the windows. John took it into his head that we might lend a hand, and I seized a pail of water, intending to throw the contents at the window, when the pail itself slipped from my hands, and flew right through the plate-glass window into the middle of the currant-buns and cakes! Unhappily, the aforesaid incorruptible policeman just happened to be in the neighbourhood, so that he caught us red-handed, and we had to make good use of our legs to escape being locked up at once.
John. You will understand that we did not intend any mischief,—it was a harmless joke, which turned out badly.
Fournichon. Of course. And not only so, but there was provocation on the baker’s part. If he had chosen another time of day to have his windows cleaned, it could not possibly have turned out so. In any case, there are plenty of extenuating circumstances, and I don’t understand why you gentlemen should have such a violent objection to a day or two under lock and key. That happens often enough, and young gentlemen don’t usually think so much of it.
John. That is true, but to-day is an extraordinary occasion. We were going to the fancy-dress ball to-night, and should be very sorry to miss it. So you see us in a fearful scrape, with a gendarme at our heels, and you must help us. [A ring at the bell.] What’s that?
Fournichon. I don’t know; we shall see in a minute. [Steps are heard coming up the stairs.]