Tem Bossette would have been tall if he had stood up straight, but as to his stoutness there was no question, and his round head greatly resembled a pumpkin. “Big head, little wit,” Mimi Pachoux used to say of him, pursing up his lips. Mimi Pachoux was gardener, orchard man, lamp man, smoke doctor, locksmith, cabinet maker, mender of clocks and china, floor-waxer, wood-sawyer, errand man and I know not what more. Oh, yes, in the winter he used to be bearer of the dead. Did any difficulty arise, was any help needed? “Call Mimi!” grandfather would say. And they would call Mimi--a matter of several hours, for no one ever knew where he was, so that when he at last arrived the work would be done; but every one gave him the credit of it. “That Mimi, he no sooner comes than everything goes well!” Picture to yourself a little scrap of a man, thin, clean, prompt, lively and invisible into the bargain. Invisible, that is what I mean, unless you would prefer to grant him the gift of ubiquity. Every morning he would begin a half dozen days’ works; here at six o’clock, and perhaps earlier--oh, that Mimi! What zeal!--At five past six at another job, and before the quarter hour at a third, loudly announcing himself at the first, running to the second, flying to the third, slipping in here, stealing out secretly, running back furtively, replying here, explaining there, protesting elsewhere, appearing, disappearing, reappearing, beginning in haste, going on in a hurry, finishing nothing, and at evening getting paid in three places at once. Grandfather used to say that several persons among his acquaintance could see their double. Father would observe that it was a well known malady, requiring nothing but drink for its production. I tried it once, but I saw everything shifting about. It was Tem Bossette who used to drink, but our Mimi Pachoux could see his triple.