“Ma foi! Yes. I am seeking a boy; he run away from home—oh, such a fine home—and join a party of scamps on a boat-house. But monsieur his guardian, he——”
A hearty burst of laughter interrupted him, and another peal brought a gleam into Pierre’s black eyes.
“For why you laugh?” he demanded, suspiciously.
“Because, chaffer,” said one, “you made a little slip.”
“A little slip? I no slip; what you mean?”
“In plain, unadulterated, unvarnished English, chaffer, we say, if I grasp your meaning aright, a ‘house-boat.’”
The giggles broke forth again.
“Ah, ees that it? We say not like that in Français; ma foi, no. I would, in la belle France, be driving an automobile rouge; and the boy, he go off on a boat-house,” muttered Pierre, shaking his head.
“So you’re after the kid to take him back with you, eh?”
“Yes; to-night he sit here, and whiz—it is to Nyack he go.”