Half an hour later, we were walking by the river which came through the city in a stone channel. There were lines of flat barges, all covered up with tarpaulins as if to say: this is all French business, none of yours. We walked on into a park, where indoor chairs were placed outside. A man sat at one of them with an easel before him and an umbrella over his head; he was painting a fountain with stone horses set all around the edge. The design made it look as if the horses were trying to run away but were trapped by their hind legs; trapped by being painted. We sat on the chairs underneath a dripping tree, and I fished out of my pocket Paris and its Environs.
'Can I have a look at that, mate?' said Hopkins. He seemed in better spirits now. I handed him the book, and he fell to reading in the 'Language' section. 'Only two things you really need,' he said after a while: "Une biere, s'il vous plait", then "Ou sont les toilettes?'"
'What's "Would you like a fuck?'" said Sampson, who was watching a young woman sauntering under the trees. But Hopkins was now looking at some other part of the book.
'I tell you, I mean to have a ride tonight,' said Sampson.
There were many baby carriages being pushed about in the park, all going in different directions, each carrying a new human who would do the same in time. I could not bear to think of the wife. Had she decided that I'd skipped, taken fright at the thought of fatherhood? I dragged my thoughts in the direction of the seated artist, but his umbrella reminded me of Lund, the fellow who'd put me in this fix – it was all his doing. I looked to my right, and Sampson was asleep. Hopkins was looking at me: 'It must be done with the tread of a cat,' he was saying, and there was a new look to him: electrified. 'What must?' 'You are to take the left-luggage tickets from his pocket.' He was looking towards the area of Sampson's privates. 'No fear,' I said. 'But you must,' he said. 'That calls for your skill,' I said, 'you're born to it. You said yourself I'd never make a dip.' 'Don't argue,' he said, giving me one of his grins. 'I'm down to your game.' 'What game?' 'You don't do it… I tell him who you are.' 'And who am I?' Hopkins just stared at me. "The name's Appleby,' I said, 'Allan Appleby.' 'Is it fuck,' said Hopkins, and still the smile was there. 'It doesn't want doing just now,' he said, 'but later on, when he's had one or two more gallons of wine.' 'Later on,' I said, '… he'll take his trews off in any case, won't he?' Hopkins shook his head. 'He'll not,' he said. 'Not with tickets to nearly three grand in his pocket, and me hanging about.' The artist was packing up, defeated by the rain, or maybe the fading of light. 'See, you must do it,' Hopkins went on, 'because one word from me to him, and you're finished. You might think you can get up now and walk off, but no. I'll give him a poke in the ribs, and I'll let on, and he'll take out that gun of his and he'll fucking have you, right here in this fucking shar-dan.' 'You'll let on to what?' I said. 'What you are.' 'And what am I?' I wanted him to say it, and he did: 'You're a fucking copper, en't you?'