"_Merci_" was his sole remark. B. got Jean
to sit down beside him on his bed and we talked for a few minutes,
avoiding the subject of the recent struggle. Then Jean went back to his
own bed and lay down.
It was not till later that we learned the climax--not till _le petit
belge avec le bras casse, le petit balayeur_, came hurrying to our end of
the room and sat down with us. He was bursting with excitement; his well
arm jerked and his sick one stumped about and he seemed incapable of
speech. At length words came.
"_Monsieur Jean_" (now that I think of it, I believe someone had told him
that all male children in America are named Jean at their birth) "I saw
SOME SIGHT! _le negre, vous savez?_--he is STRONG: _Monsieur Jean_, he's
_a_ GIANT, _croyez moi! C'est pas un homme, tu sais? Je l'ai vu,
moi_"--and he indicated his eyes.
We pricked up our ears.
The _balayeur_, stuffing a pipe nervously with his tiny thumb said: "You
saw the fight here? So did I. The whole of it. _Le noir avait raison._
Well, when they took him downstairs, I slipped out too--_Je suis le
balayeur, savez vous?_ and the _balayeur_ can go where other people
can't."
I gave him a match, and he thanked me. He struck it on his trousers with
a quick pompous gesture, drew heavily on his squeaky pipe, and at last
shot a minute puff of smoke into the air: then another, and another.
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