This
_planton_ put his gun in readiness and assumed an eager attitude of
immutable heroism. "Will you shoot?" the father inquired politely.
"Indeed it would be a big thing of which you might boast all your life:
I, a _planton_, shot and killed a six-year-old child in a tree."--"_C'est
enmerdant_," the _planton_ countered, in some confusion--"he may be
trying to escape. How do I know?"--"Indeed, how do you know anything?"
the father murmured quietly. "It's a _mystere_." The Imp, all at once,
fell. He hit the muddy ground with a disagreeable thud. The breath was
utterly knocked out of him. The Wanderer picked him up kindly. His son
began, with the catching of his breath, to howl uproariously. "Serves him
right, the ---- jackanapes," a Belgian growled.--"I told you so, didn't
I?" Monsieur Petairs worringly cried: "I said he would fall out of that
tree!"--"Pardon, you were right, I think," the father smiled pleasantly.
"Don't be sad, my little son, everybody falls out of trees, they're made
for that by God," and he patted The Imp, squatting in the mud and
smiling. In five minutes The Imp was trying to scale the shed. "Come down
or I fire," the _planton_ cried nervously ... and so it was with The
Wanderer's son from morning till night.
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