An egg-shaped head, partially covered with suspiciously black hair, two immense

mustaches, and a pair of watchful eyes. It was our mysterious neighbor, Mr.

Porrott.

 

He broke at once into fluent apologies.

 

“I demand of you a thousand pardons, monsieur. I am without defense.

 

For some months now I cultivate the marrows. This morning suddenly I enrage

myself with these marrows. I send them to promenade themselves—alas! not only

mentally but physically. I seize the biggest.

 

I hurl him over the wall. Monsieur, I am ashamed. I prostrate myself.”

 

Before such profuse apologies, my anger was forced to melt. After all, the

wretched vegetable hadn’t hit me. But I sincerely hoped that throwing large

vegetables over walls was not our new friend’s hobby.

 

Such a habit could hardly endear him to us as a neighbor.

 

The strange little man seemed to read my thoughts.

 

“Ah! no,” he exclaimed. “Do not disquiet yourself. It is not with me a habit.

But can you figure to yourself, monsieur, that a man may work towards a certain