Mr. Jellyband had appealed to the company in general, who were listening awe-struck and open-mouthed at the recital of Mr. Peppercorn’s defalcations. At one table two customers—gentlemen apparently by their clothes—had pushed aside their half-finished game of dominoes, and had been listening for some time, and evidently with much amusement at Mr. Jellyband’s international opinions. One of them now, with a quiet, sarcastic smile still lurking round the corners of his mobile mouth, turned towards the centre of the room where Mr. Jellyband was standing.

“You seem to think, mine honest friend,” he said quietly, “that these Frenchmen,—spies I think you called them—are mighty clever fellows to have made mincemeat so to speak of your friend Mr. Peppercorn’s opinions. How did they accomplish that now, think you?”

“Lud! sir, I suppose they talked ’im over. Those Frenchies, I’ve ’eard it said, ’ave got the gift of the gab—and Mr. ’Empseed ’ere will tell you ’ow it is that they just twist some people round their little finger like.”

“Indeed, and is that so, Mr. Hempseed?” inquired the stranger politely.

“Nay, sir!” replied Mr. Hempseed, much irritated, “I dunno as I can give you the information you require.”

“Faith, then,” said the stranger, “let us hope, my worthy host, that these clever spies will not succeed in upsetting your extremely loyal opinions.”

But this was too much for Mr. Jellyband’s pleasant equanimity. He burst into an uproarious fit of laughter, which was soon echoed by those who happened to be in his debt.

“Hahaha! hohoho! hehehe!” He laughed in every key, did my worthy host, and laughed until his sides ached, and his eyes streamed. “At me! hark at that! Did ye ’ear ’im say that they’d be upsettin’ my opinions?—Eh? —Lud love you, sir, but you do say some queer things.”

“Well, Mr. Jellyband,” said Mr. Hempseed, sententiously, “you know what the Scriptures say: ‘Let ’im ’oo stands take ’eed lest ’e fall.’ ”

“But then hark’ee, Mr. ’Empseed,” retorted Jellyband, still holding his sides with laughter, “the Scriptures didn’t know me. Why, I wouldn’t so much as drink a glass of ale with one o’ them murderin’ Frenchmen, and nothin’ ’d make me change my opinions. Why! I’ve ’eard it said that them frog-eaters can’t even speak the King’s English, so, of course, if any of ’em tried to speak their God-forsaken lingo to me, why, I should spot them directly, see!—and forewarned is forearmed, as the saying goes.”

“Aye! my honest friend,” assented the stranger cheerfully, “I see that you are much too sharp, and a match for any twenty Frenchmen, and here’s to your very good health, my worthy host, if you’ll do me the honour to finish this bottle of mine with me.”

“I am sure you’re very polite, sir,” said Mr. Jellyband, wiping his eyes which were still streaming with the abundance of his laughter, “and I don’t mind if I do.”

The stranger poured out a couple of tankards full of wine, and having offered one to mine host, he took the other himself.

“Loyal Englishmen as we all are,” he said, whilst the same humorous smile played round the corners of his thin lips—“loyal as we are, we must admit that this at least is one good thing which comes to us from France.”

“Aye! we’ll none of us deny that, sir,” assented mine host.

“And here’s to the best landlord in England, our worthy host, Mr. Jellyband,” said the stranger in a loud tone of voice.