“He is only a step from here.
Hey!
Master Bourgaillard!”
Master Bourgaillard, the wheelwright, was standing on his own threshold.
He came, examined the wheel and made a grimace like a surgeon when the latter thinks a limb is broken.
“Can you repair this wheel immediately?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When can I set out again?”
“To-morrow.”
“To-morrow!”
“There is a long day’s work on it.
Are you in a hurry, sir?”
“In a very great hurry.
I must set out again in an hour at the latest.”
“Impossible, sir.”
“I will pay whatever you ask.”
“Impossible.”
“Well, in two hours, then.”
“Impossible to-day.
Two new spokes and a hub must be made.
Monsieur will not be able to start before to-morrow morning.”
“The matter cannot wait until to-morrow.
What if you were to replace this wheel instead of repairing it?”
“How so?”
“You are a wheelwright?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Have you not a wheel that you can sell me?
Then I could start again at once.”
“A spare wheel?”
“Yes.”
“I have no wheel on hand that would fit your cabriolet.
Two wheels make a pair.
Two wheels cannot be put together hap-hazard.”
“In that case, sell me a pair of wheels.”
“Not all wheels fit all axles, sir.”
“Try, nevertheless.”
“It is useless, sir.
I have nothing to sell but cart-wheels.
We are but a poor country here.”
“Have you a cabriolet that you can let me have?”
The wheelwright had seen at the first glance that the tilbury was a hired vehicle.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“You treat the cabriolets that people let you so well!
If I had one, I would not let it to you!”
“Well, sell it to me, then.”
“I have none.”
“What! not even a spring-cart?
I am not hard to please, as you see.”
“We live in a poor country.
There is, in truth,” added the wheelwright, “an old calash under the shed yonder, which belongs to a bourgeois of the town, who gave it to me to take care of, and who only uses it on the thirty-sixth of the month—never, that is to say.