At six o'clock punctually the market women were all in their places
along the pavement by their respective stalls. The hall was decorated
with flags; the salesmen and regular shopmen were provided with chairs,
and their assistants were behind them, with the sweepers and criers; at
the back stood three or four rows of the general public, all eager to
witness the impressive display.

The two-hundred-yard course was carefully cleared, every obstacle having
been scrupulously swept off the asphalte, especially pieces of
orange-peel, lettuce leaves and bits of rotten vegetable matter, which
might have caused a competitor to slip when trying to break the record
for carrying the sack. A high official of the Hotel de Ville and three
of the senior Market Porters formed the jury, and there were also two
officials of the Cyclists' Union, expert in the use of stop watches,
armed with tested chronometers and deputed to take the exact time of
each performance.

The crowd of onlookers was as odd, and eclectic, and keen, as can
possibly be imagined. Berthe, who knew that false modesty is quite out
of place in popular gatherings, mingled freely in the general
conversation. Among other picturesque types she had noticed one
particularly extraordinary individual who, although he was in the last
row of all, overtopped the rest by quite half of his body, being perched
on an antiquated tricycle, which provoked the hilarity of the mob.

"What ho, Bouzille!" somebody called out, for the man was a well-known
and popular figure, and everybody knew his name. "Is that Methuselah's
tricycle that you have pinched?" and to some of the sallies the fellow
replied with a smile that was almost lost in his matted beard, and to
others with a jest uttered in the purest dialect of Auvergne.

Someone spoke softly in Berthe's ear and she turned and saw a sturdy
fellow of about twenty-five, wearing a blue blouse, a red handkerchief
round his neck, and a drover's cap; he was a well-built, powerful man,
and in spite of his humble dress, had an intelligent face and an almost
distinguished manner. Berthe responded amiably, and a few commonplace
remarks were exchanged between the two.

"In case you care to know, my name's Julot," said the man.

And Berthe replied frankly, but without otherwise compromising herself.

"And I am Bob, or Bobinette, whichever you like. I am Hogshead
Geoffroy's sister," she added with a little touch of pride.

A murmur ran round