THE ARM-CHAIR AT THE INN
his mother and I were girls together; she had only this one left—the boat upset and the father was drowned off Les Dents Terribles two years ago.”
Louis, whose heart is as big as his body, was less cautious. He must have a word with the girl herself. And so, when we had all gathered before the fire to dry out—for most of us were still wet and all ravenous—he called out to her in his cheery, hearty way:
“That is a plucky garçon of yours, mademoiselle. Monsieur Lemois would have been flattened into a pancake but for him. When the house fell it was Monsieur Gaston who jerked him away from the window and rolled a sofa on top of him. Ah!—a brave garçon, and one who does you credit.”
The girl—she was busying herself with her dishes at the time—blushed and said: “Merci, monsieur,” her eyes dancing over the praise of her lover, but she was too modest and too well trained to say more.
Again Le Blanc’s siren came shrieking down the road. This time it would bring Lemois. I threw on another log to warm them both, and Louis began collecting a small assortment of glasses, Mignon following with a decanter.
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