...
"Goo-bye, boy!"
--O good-bye, good-bye, I am going away, Jean; have a good time, laugh
wonderfully when _la neige_ comes....
And I am standing somewhere with arms lifted up. "_Si vous avez une
lettre, sais-tu, il faut dire._ For if I find a letter on you it will go
hard with the man that gave it to you to take out." Black. The Black
Holster even. Does not examine my baggage. Wonder why? "_Allez!_" Jean's
letter to his gonzesse in Paris still safe in my little pocket under my
belt. Ha, ha, by God, that's a good one on you, you Black Holster, you
Very Black Holster. That's a good one. Glad I said good-bye to the cook.
Why didn't I give Monsieur Auguste's little friend, the _cordonnier_,
more than six francs for mending my shoes? He looked so injured. I am a
fool, and I am going into the street, and I am going by myself with no
_planton_ into the little street of the little city of La Ferte Mace
which is a little, a very little city in France, where once upon a time I
used to catch water for an old man....
I have already shaken hands with the Cook, and with the _cordonnier_ who
has beautifully mended my shoes. I am saying good-bye to _les deux
balayeurs_. I am shaking hands with the little (the very little)
Machine-Fixer again.
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