Paul let fall a subtle hint instead of the hammer. He wanted to be left alone.
“Why don’t you go and look for some yourself, monsieur. The good God helps those——”
“Oh, go to hell!” said Bibi.
He slouched out of the house, turning up the collar of his coat because of the rain, and Brent saw him walk down the Rue de Rosières. It appeared that Louis Blanc did not know of those huts, which was amusing and rather suggestive; Bibi had despised Beaucourt, and had not bothered to discover what Beaucourt could give him. When a man has big ideas, he does not trouble to grub among rubbish heaps.
Brent descended, looped the ground sheet over his shoulders, and went back to his work. Louis Blanc had disappeared, but presently he came swinging back along the Rue de Rosières, and Brent had a feeling that he had seen those huts.
Bibi went past the café with a cocked chin and a gleaming eye.
“You had better not take any more of that,” he shouted at Brent; “it belongs to the State.”
Paul nodded at him.
“All right. It’s no use to you, I suppose? Good morning.”
Bibi called him a certain foul thing, and stalked on. He had made up his mind to hire a wagon and horses and salve some of that stuff for himself.