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‘Are you a man, young ‘un?’
Gavroche shrugged his shoulders, and replied:—
‘A young ‘un like me’s a man, and men like you are
babes.’
‘The brat’s tongue’s well hung!’ exclaimed Babet.
‘The Paris brat ain’t made of straw,’ added Brujon.
‘What do you want?’ asked Gavroche.
Montparnasse answered:—
‘Climb up that flue.’
‘With this rope,’ said Babet.
‘And fasten it,’ continued Brujon.
‘To the top of the wall,’ went on Babet.
‘To the cross-bar of the window,’ added Brujon.
‘And then?’ said Gavroche.
‘There!’ said Guelemer.
The gamin examined the rope, the flue, the wall, the win-
dows, and made that indescribable and disdainful noise with
his lips which signifies:—
‘Is that all!’
‘There’s a man up there whom you are to save,’ resumed
Montparnasse.
‘Will you?’ began Brujon again.
‘Greenhorn!’ replied the lad, as though the question ap-
peared a most unprecedented one to him.
And he took off his shoes.
Guelemer seized Gavroche by one arm, set him on the
roof of the shanty, whose worm-eaten planks bent beneath
the urchin’s weight, and handed him the rope which Brujon
had knotted together during Montparnasse’s absence. The