I say, and I
stick to it, that he's a Frenchy. He says he isn't. Well then,
let him out with his papers, if he has them! If he had, would he
not show them? If he had, would he not jump at the idea of going
to Squire Merton, a man you all know? Now, you are all plain,
straightforward Bedfordshire men, and I wouldn't ask a better lot
to appeal to. You're not the kind to be talked over with any
French gammon, and he's plenty of that. But let me tell him, he
can take his pigs to another market; they'll never do here; they'll
never go down in Bedfordshire. Why! look at the man! Look at his
feet! Has anybody got a foot in the room like that? See how he
stands! do any of you fellows stand like that? Does the landlord,
there? Why, he has Frenchman wrote all over him, as big as a sign-
post!'
This was all very well; and in a different scene I might even have
been gratified by his remarks; but I saw clearly, if I were to
allow him to talk, he might turn the tables on me altogether. He
might not be much of a hand at boxing; but I was much mistaken, or
he had studied forensic eloquence in a good school. In this
predicament I could think of nothing more ingenious than to burst
out of the house, under the pretext of an ungovernable rage. It
was certainly not very ingenious--it was elementary, but I had no
choice.
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