Short and thick-set,
he had a bullet head, a bull's neck, and face and hands scarred and
dented by more than a quarter of a century of toil. By calling he was a
fitter, and he had come to submit a difficulty which had just arisen in
the piecing together of a reaping machine. But, his employer, who was
still angrily thinking of over-numerous families, did not give him time
to explain his purpose.
"And you, old Moineaud, how many children have you?" he inquired.
"Seven, Monsieur Beauchene," the workman replied, somewhat taken aback.
"I've lost three."
"So, including them, you would now have ten? Well, that's a nice state of
things! How can you do otherwise than starve?"
Moineaud began to laugh like the gay thriftless Paris workman that he
was. The little ones? Well, they grew up without his even noticing it,
and, indeed, he was really fond of them, so long as they remained at
home. And, besides, they worked as they grew older, and brought a little
money in. However, he preferred to answer his employer with a jest which
set them all laughing.
After he had explained the difficulty with the reaper, the others
followed him to examine the work for themselves.
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