"You shall beat him into a captain on his own anvil," rejoined the little
man.
They entered the shop. Lajeunesse was leaning on his bellows, laughing,
and holding an iron in the spitting fire; Muroc was seated on the edge of
the cooling tub; and Duclosse was resting on a bag of his excellent meal.
Garotte was the only missing member of the quartette.
Muroc was a wag, a grim sort of fellow, black from his trade, with big
rollicking eyes. At times he was not easy to please, but if he took a
liking, he was for joking at once. He approved of Parpon, and never lost
a chance of sharpening his humour on the dwarf's impish whetstone of a
tongue.
"Lord! Lord!" he cried, with feigned awe, getting to his feet at sight
of the two. Then, to his comrades, "Children, children, off with your
hats! Here is Monsieur Talleyrand, if I'm not mistaken. On to your
feet, mealman, and dust your stomach. Lajeunesse, wipe your face with
your leather. Duck your heads, stupids!"
With mock solemnity the three greeted Parpon and Lagroin. The old
sergeant's face flushed, and his hand dropped to his sword; but he had
promised Parpon to say nothing till he got his cue, and he would keep his
word. So he disposed himself in an attitude of martial attention. The
dwarf bowed to the others with a face of as great gravity as the
charcoalman's, and waving his hand, said:
"Keep your seats, my children, and God be with you.
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