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Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894

"St. Ives, Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England"

'But happily we are now the best of
friends, and have all our interests in common.'
'You go a little too fast, if you'll excuse me, Mr. -: I do not
know your name, that I am aware,' said Dudgeon.
'No, to be sure!' said I. 'Never heard of it!'
'A word of explanation--' he began.
'No, Dudgeon!' I interrupted. 'Be practical; I know what you want,
and the name of it is supper. Rien ne creuse comme l'emotion. I
am hungry myself, and yet I am more accustomed to warlike
palpitations than you, who are but a hunter of hedgesparrows. Let
me look at your face critically: your bill of fare is three slices
of cold rare roast beef, a Welsh rabbit, a pot of stout, and a
glass or two of sound tawny port, old in bottle--the right milk of
Englishmen.' Methought there seemed a brightening in his eye and a
melting about his mouth at this enumeration.
'The night is young,' I continued; 'not much past eleven, for a
wager. Where can we find a good inn? And remark that I say GOOD,
for the port must be up to the occasion--not a headache in a pipe
of it.'
'Really, sir,' he said, smiling a little, 'you have a way of
carrying things--'
'Will nothing make you stick to the subject?' I cried; 'you have
the most irrelevant mind! How do you expect to rise in your
profession? The inn?'
'Well, I will say you are a facetious gentleman!' said he.


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