I could see that he was not an
Italian, neither was he a German nor a Frenchman. He looked more like a
well-to-do Dutchman--like one of those young fellows you and I used to
see at the Harmonie Club in Dordrecht, or on the veranda of the Amstel,
in Amsterdam. They look more like Americans than any other people
in Europe.
"The next night I was telling the fellows some stories, they crowding
about to listen, when Auguste whispered in my ear. I turned, and there
he was again, his eyes watching every mouthful I swallowed, his ears
taking in everything that was said. The other fellows had noticed him
now, and had christened him 'Marny's Shadow.' One of them wanted to ask
him his business, and fire him into the street if it wasn't
satisfactory, but I wouldn't have it. He had said nothing to me or
anybody else, nor had he, so far as I knew, followed me when I went out.
He had a perfect right to dine where he pleased if he paid for it--and
he did--so Auguste admitted, and liberally, too. He could look at whom
he pleased.
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