“But it’s as plain as plain,” retorted the apache. “Day before the boat comes in, I hook it to Hâvre, dressed up to the nines; then I slip into the special train where the swagger dames are, then on the journey up I get to work; it’s mostly purses I do, now and then a ring, a bit of jewelry, or pocket-book. All that lot, when they step ashore, are upset, bewildered, sick, tired, _they_ never care to kick up a dust if they happen to find their pockets have been gone through.” Père Moche nodded approvingly. “Not bad,” he laughed, “not bad! You’re a cute chap, my boy, for all your silly looks and dandified airs.” “Only,” pursued the apache, “one must anyway have one’s return ticket, and as it happens, I’m cleaned out just now.” “Whew!” muttered the old miser. But “Beauty Boy” returned to his charge: “Come now, don’t be a mean cuss, hand me over four bulls, won’t you?” At last Père Moche so far yielded to the other’s eager importunities and forked out. But, like a good business man, he struck a bargain with the borrower that the latter, on his return, that is to say on the next day but one, should pay him back thirty francs. The cash once in his pocket, the apache vanished. Fandor had overheard it all, besides catching other scraps of conversation from one and another of the band, from which he gathered only one thing clearly, and that was that at bottom everyone of them was upset about the arrival of the redoubtable and mysterious Tom Bob, whose coming was announced with such a flourish of trumpets and noisy advertisement—a proceeding by-the-by he, Fandor, deemed highly injudicious. The journalist noted the “Beauty Boy’s” departure, and he could not help thinking that it would be greatly to _his_ advantage, too, if only he could get to Hâvre. But alas! he had not a sou and could not borrow from Père Moche, as the apache had done, inasmuch as he could not very well urge the same reasons to justify the loan. Still the idea tormented him that he _must_ go to Hâvre. It was all important for him to get to know Tom Bob at the earliest possible moment, so to say before everybody else. He was still cudgelling his brains to discover some way of realizing his project when suddenly he shuddered to hear a hoarse, angry voice growling in his ear: “Scoundrel, brigand, murderer, aren’t you ashamed to show your face? why don’t I have you run in on the spot? will you rid me of the sight of you, now, this instant, you hell-hound of calamity!” Fandor wheeled round in consternation, dumbfounded by this avalanche of abuse, this maelstrom of words. His eyes opened wide in amazement; it was old Moche who was addressing him in these furious terms—Moche, his face working with passion, unable to contain himself for anger. The old scoundrel went on with a hypocritical assumption of righteous indignation.