Robert William Chambers

The Girl Philippa Robert William Chambers

Somebody at Warner's elbow spoke to him in French. He turned his head leisurely: a well-dressedyoung fellow, evidently an Englishman, was striving to maintain a place beside him in the noisy, market day crowd."Pardon, Monsieur, are you English?""American," replied Warner briefly, and without enthusiasm."My name is Halkett," said the other, with a quick smile. "I'm English, and I'm in trouble. Could you spare me a moment?"To Warner the man did not look the typical British dead-beat, nor had he any of the earmarksand mannerisms of the Continental beach-comber. Yet he was, probably, some species or other ofthat wearisome and itinerant genus."I'm listening," said the young American resignedly. "Continue your story.""There's such a row going on here-couldn't we find a quieter place?""I can hear you perfectly well, I tell you!"Halkett said: "If I try to talk to you here I'll be overheard, and that won't do. I'm very sorry to inconvenienceyou, but really I'm in a fix. What a noise these people are making! Do you mind coming somewhereelse?""Say what you desire to say here," returned Warner bluntly. "And perhaps it might save time ifyou begin with the last chapter; I think I can guess the rest of the story."The features of the American expressed boredom to the point of unfriendly indifference. TheEnglishman looked at him, perplexed for a moment, then his sun-bronzed face lighted up withanother quick smile."You're quite mistaken," he said. "I don't expect the classic remittance from England, and Idon't require the celebrated twenty-franc loan until it arrives. You take me for that sort, I see, butI'm not. I don't need money. May I tell you what I do need-rather desperately?""Yes, if you choose.""I need a friend.""Money is easier to pick up," remarked Warner drily."I know that. May I ask my favor of you all the same?""Go ahead.""Thanks, I will. But can't we get out of this crowd? What is going on in this town anyway?""Market day. It's like this once a month in Ausone. Otherwise the town is as dead as any otherFrench provincial town."3Shoulder to shoulder they threaded their way through the crowded market square, amid theclatter of sabots, the lowing of cattle, the incessant bleating of sheep. Ducks quacked from crates inwagons, geese craned white necks and hissed above the heads of the moving throngs; hogs squealedand grunted; fowls hanging by their legs from the red fists of sturdy peasant women squawked andflapped. Cheap-Jack shows of all sorts encumbered the square and adjacent streets and alleys-gingerbread booths, shooting ranges, photograph galleries, moving-picture shows, theaters for tensous. Through the lowing, bleating, and cockcrowing, the drumming and squeaking of Punch andJudy, and the brassy dissonance of half a dozen bands, mournful and incessant strains from severalmerry-go-rounds continued audib