Reaching the end of the Rue de Picardie, Louis Blanc had a view of the work that Paul had completed, and it was the work of a craftsman, no bodging job perpetrated in a back garden by an enthusiastic amateur. Bibi stood in the street and gazed, and the longer he looked, the more fiercely he disliked Paul. Brent was on the roof, nailing down battens at great speed, a couple of nails in his mouth, and his back to Louis Blanc. It was evident to Bibi that Manon had made a catch, and that the fellow up there on the roof was worth many smiles.
He shouted at Brent:
“Good morning, monsieur.”
And a moment later:
“Where the devil did you get that wood?”
Brent turned sharply, and sitting on one of the lower battens, looked down at Bibi. He saw him as a tall man, feet planted well apart, stomach thrown forward, his fists bulging out of his trouser pockets, a man who looked all angles, lean shoulders jutting out, jaw cocked, cap over one eye, elbows truculent. Bibi reminded Brent of a big and blackguardly variation of “Captain Kettle.”
He removed the nails from his mouth, and wished Bibi good morning. The first drops of rain were beginning to fall.
Louis Blanc repeated the question that Brent had failed to answer:
“Where the devil did you get that wood?”
Brent smiled down at him.