examine ardently. Crillon is sitting, but he keeps his eyes on it.
Heart and soul he applies himself to the debate. His humble trade as a
botcher does not allow a fixed tariff, and he is all alone as he
vindicates the value of his work. With his fists he hammers the
gray-striped mealy cloth on his knees, and the hair, which grows
thickly round his big neck, gives him the nape of a wild boar.

"That felt," he complains, "I'll tell you what was the matter with it.
It was rain, heavy rain, that had drowned it. That felt, I tells you,
was only like a dirty handkerchief. What does _that_ represent--in
ebullition of steam, in gumming, and the passage of time?"

Monsieur Justin Pocard is talking to three companions, who, hat in
hand, are listening with all their ears. He is entertaining them in
his sonorous language about the great financial and industrial
combination which he has planned. A speculative thrill electrifies the
company.

"That'll brush business up!" says Crillon, in wonder, torn for a moment
from contemplation of the hat, but promptly relapsing on it.

Joseph Bonéas says to me, in an undertone,--and I am flattered,--"That
Pocard is a man of no education, but he has practical sense. That's a
big idea he's got,--at least if he sees things as I see them."

And I, I am thinking that if I were older or more influential in the
district, perhaps I should be in the Pocard scheme, which is taking
shape, and will be huge.

Meanwhile, Brisbille is scowling. An unconfessable disquiet is