His hob-nailed shoes weighed two pounds each.

In his hand, he held a small reddish stick, much polished, with a large knob, which was fastened round his wrist by a thong of leather.
"And you are called Pere Leger ?" asked Georges, very seriously, as the farmer attempted to put a foot on the step.
"At your service," replied the farmer, looking in and showing a face like that of Louis XVIII., with fat, rubicund cheeks, from between which issued a nose that in any other face would have seemed enormous.

His smiling eyes were sunken in rolls of fat.

"Come, a helping hand, my lad!" he said to Pierrotin.
The farmer was hoisted in by the united efforts of Pierrotin and the porter, to cries of "Houp la! hi! ha! hoist!" uttered by Georges.
"Oh! I'm not going far; only to La Cave," said the farmer, good-humoredly.
In France everybody takes a joke.
"Take the back seat," said Pierrotin, "there'll be six of you." "Where's your other horse ?" demanded Georges.

"Is it as mythical as the third post-horse." "There she is," said Pierrotin, pointing to the little mare, who was coming along alone.
"He calls that insect a horse!" exclaimed Georges.
"Oh! she's good, that little mare," said the farmer, who by this time was seated.