The British consul was a high and mighty man in his own esteem, and he snuffed me out in the grandest style. I could not help admiring the art with which this servant of the British Crown reduced me, from the height of my legitimate self-respect, to the nothingness he thought my true status.
“They manage things differently in France to what they do in England, sir, I can tell you. Now, leave the matter all to me, sir, till the fellow’s captured, and you have him again in England.”
I and my friend retired to the passage of the consul’s office (which was one small room) to confer on the subject. The consul also had a conference in his office with his man of all work, whose name I afterwards ascertained to be Boggy. At this conference I agreed to allow the consul to take his own course of action in France, and I was to merely assist when asked to render aid.
“Well, my man Boggy shall go and see whether the fellow is at this moment in the port. Boggy will soon ascertain that.”
Boggy’s palm was crossed with a golden coin, which bore an effigy of England’s Queen, to stimulate his zeal in the execution of her laws.
The Frenchman was not long in discovering Mr. Abraham Driver’s whereabouts. He came back to announce that the man we wanted was unsuspectingly smoking a meerschaum at the Anglo-American Hotel.
Now to seize the villain. I was ready, and the defrauded creditor was intensely anxious for the fellow’s capture.
“Nay, nay,” said the consul. “We must go to the commissary of police. I must pay his fees. It will not take long to get through the ceremonies, but it will cost money to arrest the scoundrel. Nothing is done in this country, sir, without money.”
“What will be the amount of the fees, do you suppose?” asked my client.
“I can’t say exactly. About 16l. or 17l. You had better let me have 20l., and I can return you the balance.”