murdered. His body was found in the oven. Cambier is under arrest. I
know what you have been doing, but I also know that in this you have had
no hand. Here are one hundred francs. Leave Paris in an hour.'

"I put the money in my pocket, tied my clothes in a bundle, and that
night was on my way to Havre, and the next week set sail for here."

"And what became of Cambier?" I asked.

"I have never heard from that day to this, so I think they must have
snuffed him out."

Then he drifted into his early life here--the weary tramping of the
streets day after day, the half-starving result, the language and people
unknown. Suddenly, somewhere in the lower part of the city, he espied a
card tacked outside of a window bearing this inscription, "Decorator
wanted." A man inside was painting one of the old-fashioned iron
tea-trays common in those days. Monsieur took off his hat, pointed to
the card, then to himself, seized the brush, and before the man could
protest had covered the bottom with morning-glories so pink and fresh
that his troubles ended on the spot. The first week he earned six
dollars; but then this was to be paid at the end of it. For these six
days he subsisted on one meal a day. This he ate at a restaurant where
at night he washed dishes and blacked the head waiter's boots. When
Saturday came, and the money was counted out in his hand, he thrust it
into his pocket, left the shop, and sat down on a doorstep outside to
think.

"And, _mon ami_, what did I do first?"