Well, if the gendarmes call this afternoon I'll not be at home.

No, thank you.
I shall be hunting pheasants." And thereat he set to work cleaning the gun which had all but prostrated the inspector.

Soon the room smelled of oiled rags and tobacco.
Some-times the worker whistled softly.

Sometimes he let the gun fall against his knee, and stared dreamily through the window at the flight of the ragged clouds.

Again, he would shake his head, as if there were something which he failed to understand.