Dick, with a slight dry reserve, "reckoned that he had." "They were made by the scythes and pitchforks of the peasants in the Revolution of '93, when the count was emigre, as one says with reason 'skedadelle, to England. Let them look the next time that they burn not the chateau, 'bet your lif'!" "The chateau," said Dick, with affected carelessness. "Wot's the blamed thing like?"