"Call me a hansom! Call me a hansom! Call me a hansom!" he repeated over and over at the top of his voice. "C'est un fiacre—fiacre—fiacre!" he shouted. "Oh, là, là! Mille tonnerres! Call me a hansom!"
"He must be crazy," said Bonny; "for he certainly isn't handsome, and even if he were, he couldn't expect people to call him so. I wonder why they don't send for the police."
Instead of answering him, Alaric stepped up to the laughing group and said, politely, "Pardon, monsieur. C'est Monsieur Filbert, n'est-ce pas?"
"Oui, oui. Je suis Filbert! Call me a hansom."
"He wants a carriage," explained Alaric to the porters, who stared open-mouthed at hearing this young tramp talk to the foreigner in his own "lingo." "Vous voulez une voiture, n'est-ce pas?" he added, turning to the stranger.
"Oh, my friend!" cried M. Filbert in his own language, flinging away the perplexing phrase-book as he spoke, and embracing Alaric in his joy at finding himself once more comprehended. "It is as the voice of an angel from heaven to hear again my own language in this place of barbarians!"
"Have a care, monsieur," warned Alaric, "how you speak of barbarians. There are many here who can understand perfectly your language."
"I care not for them! I do not see them! They have not come to me! You are the first! Can it be that I may engage you to remain and interpret for me this language of distraction?" Here the speaker drew back, and scanned Alaric's forlorn appearance hopefully.
"That is what I came to see you about, monsieur," answered Alaric. "I am looking for employment, and shall be happy—"