stood he, the hideous Jew monster, at the double door, writhing under
the effect of my language. I had my revenge! Heads were thrust out of
every bar of his windows, laughing at him. A crowd gathered round me,
as I stood pounding him with my satire, and they evidently enjoyed his
discomfiture. I think the mob would have pelted the ruffian to death
(one or two of their missiles hit ME, I can tell you), when a policeman
came up, and in reply to a gentleman, who was asking what was the
disturbance, said, “Bless you, sir, it's Lord Cornwallis.” “Move on,
BOOTS,” said the fellow to me; for the fact is, my misfortunes and early
life are pretty well known--and so the crowd dispersed.
“What could have made that policeman call you Lord Cornwallis and
Boots?” said the gentleman, who seemed mightily amused, and had followed
me. “Sir,” says I, “I am an unfortunate officer of the North Bungay
Fencibles, and I'll tell you willingly for a pint of beer.” He told me
to follow him to his chambers in the Temple, which I did (a five-pair
back), and there, sure enough, I had the beer; and told him this very
story you've been reading. You see he is what is called a literary
man--and sold my adventures for me to the booksellers; he's a strange
chap; and says they're MORAL.
*****
I'm blest if I can see anything moral in them. I'm sure I ought to have
been more lucky through life, being so very wide awake. And yet here I
am, without a place, or even a friend, starving upon a beggarly twenty
pounds a year--not a single sixpence more, upon MY HONOR.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Fatal Boots, by William Makepeace Thackeray