“I think Bibi was looking at something else,” said Brent; “your café.”
It is probable that no salvage party ever worked as Paul and Manon did, stripping the corrugated iron from those army huts in the field on the road to Rosières. They dragged the yellow gig up the hill, and Manon loaded it, while Brent used hammer, cold chisel and tommy-bar, and slid the loosened sheets down to her from the roof. They made a fine and healthy clatter between them on that Sunday afternoon, but as there was no one in Beaucourt to hear it, no one was offended. Brent allowed twenty sheets to a load, remembering the weak wheel of the gig. Then they set off for the café, Brent between the shafts, Manon pushing behind, the load banging and clattering as the gig bumped over the pavé. They carted two such loads before breaking off for dinner, a meal that lasted less than twenty minutes.
“Forty sheets. That was pretty quick work. We want a hundred.”
He had lit his pipe, and was glancing humorously at the bloody finger and knuckles of his left hand.
“Nasty stuff to handle. And I was in a hurry.”
“You worked like a devil,” she said.
“I’m fresh to the tools. Show me your hands.”
Manon had a slight cut across her left palm.
“You ought to have gloves.”
“I’m not afraid of a cut or two.”