de Rivoli. By this means he cannoned into a worthy 
Frenchman (who refused to take him seriously) and so 
was shocked into himself.  
He pulled out his watch. Only an hour and a half to 
catch his train. Just as he was beginning to enjoy him-
self, too. What a shame! He couldn't even send a tele-
gram without letting somebody know where he was—
and at home they supposed him to be visiting a business 
acquaintance in Shropshire.  
I'll have a mementum, thought he, if I die for it. 
I’ll—I don’t care. I may as well be hung for a sheep as a 
lamb— I'll go the whole hog. I know there's shops about 
here.  
So, turning, in his excitement and determination, he 
saw when you invoke the devil he is usually half-way to 
you—a shop window full of photographs of the pictures 
and sculptures of the Louvre. He looked up and down 
the street—the sight of a top hat might have saved him 
even at the eleventh hour. But no! nothing that looked 
in the least like an Englishman, even to his overheated 
fear of discovery. He peered and dodged about for a 
little like a man stalking dangerous game, and then, with 
sudden stealth, his back to the door, pushed down the 
lever and slid into the shop.  
“Avvy-voo photography?” he said hurriedly, with 
averted face.  
“Certainly, sir,” replied the shopkeeper in perfect 
English. “What does Monsieur require? Photographs of 
Paris, of Fontainebleau, of the Louvre, of Versailles?”  
But English would not serve the turn of Theodore 
Bugg. He nearly bolted from the shop. An English 
voice—it was almost Discovery!  
“Kerker shows,” he muttered doggedly enough, 
though his head hung lower than ever. “Kelker shows 
tray sho. Voo savvy?—tray tray sho—par propre!”  
The shopman, not yet old enough to master his dis-
gust at the familiar incident, brought forward several 
books of photographs.