still hangs fire.

Lamuse whispers to me, in a torment of fear and cupidity, "Let's
hope she'll catch on, the filthy old slut. It's grand here, and, you
know, everything else is pinched!"

"There's no table," the woman says at last.

"Don't worry about the table," Barque exclaims. "Tenez! there, put
away in that corner, the old door; that would make us a table."

"You're not going to trail me about and upset all my work!" replies
the cardboard woman suspiciously, and with obvious regret that she
had not chased us away immediately.

"Don't worry, I tell you. Look, I'll show you. Hey, Lamuse, old
cock, give me a hand."

Under the displeased glances of the virago we place the old door on
a couple of barrels.

"With a bit of a rub-down," says I, "that will be perfect."

"Eh, oui, maman, a flick with a brush'll do us instead of
tablecloth."

The woman hardly knows what to say; she watches us spitefully:
"There's only two stools, and how many are there of you?"

"About a dozen."