“Been! It is.” “Why don't you come to Paris with me?” “I don't want to be picked up,” stammered Andrews. “Not a chance.... I know the ropes.... All you have to do is keep away from the Olympia and the railway stations, walk fast and keep your shoes shined... and you've got wits, haven't you?” “Not many.... Let's drink a bottle of wine. Isn't there anything to eat to be got here?” “Not a damn thing, and I daren't go out of the station on account of the M.P. at the gate.... There'll be a diner on the Marseilles express.” “But I can't go to Paris.” “Sure.... Look, how do you call yourself?” “John Andrews.” “Well, John Andrews, all I can say is that you've let 'em get your goat. Don't give in. Have a good time, in spite of 'em. To hell with 'em.” He brought the bottle down so hard on the table that it broke and the purple wine flowed over the dirty marble and dripped gleaming on the floor. Some French soldiers who stood in a group round the bar turned round. “V'la un gars qui gaspille le bon vin,” said a tall red-faced man, with long sloping whiskers. “Pour vingt sous j'mangerai la bouteille,” cried a little man lurching forward and leaning drunkenly over the table. “Done,” said Henslowe. “Say, Andrews, he says he'll eat the bottle for a franc.” He placed a shining silver franc on the table beside the remnants of the broken bottle. The man seized the neck of the bottle in a black, claw-like hand and gave it a preparatory flourish. He was a cadaverous little man, incredibly dirty, with mustaches and beard of a moth-eaten tow-color, and a purple flush on his cheeks. His uniform was clotted with mud. When the others crowded round him and tried to dissuade him, he said: “M'en fous, c'est mon metier,” and rolled his eyes so that the whites flashed in the dim light like the eyes of dead codfish. “Why, he's really going to do it,” cried Henslowe. The man's teeth flashed and crunched down on the jagged edge of the glass. There was a terrific crackling noise. He flourished the bottle-end again. “My God, he's eating it,” cried Henslowe, roaring with laughter, “and you're afraid to go to Paris.” An engine rumbled into the station, with a great hiss of escaping steam. “Gee, that's the Paris train! Tiens!” He pressed the franc into the man's dirt-crusted hand. “Come along, Andrews.” As they left the buvette they heard again the crunching crackling noise as the man bit another piece off the bottle. Andrews followed Henslowe across the steam-filled platform to the door of a first-class carriage. They climbed in. Henslowe immediately pulled down the black cloth over the half globe of the light. The compartment was empty. He threw himself down with a sigh of comfort on the soft buff-colored cushions of the seat. “But what on earth?” stammered Andrews. “M'en fous, c'est mon metier,” interrupted Henslowe. The train pulled out of the station. III