He squinted at me in his shrewd manner; and then he got up from the table and wrung my hand.
“Good luck to you both,” he said. “Say, Mr. Dubois, I guess we can pitch our tent here to-night—don’t you?”
Alfred Dubois was grappling with our hands again; but his onset was less ferocious, because he had to loose us every now and then to slap me on the back and blow his nose.
“If only la petite Madeleine could be here!” he shouted. And I am sure that was his dinner voice I heard.