“I guess you’ve made a grand mistake, my good gentleman,” said Mr. Driver, with a strong nasal accent (which had never been remarked in Liverpool), as if anxious to supply the evidence of his nationality, and save the trouble of being asked for it.
Up to this moment neither the creditor nor I had any idea that he was not an Englishman and a subject of the Queen’s.
“What do you mean, sir?” asked the sergeant of gendarmes, in tolerably good English.
“Why, I guess you know that I am an American citizen; and mind now, I warn, you, sir, not to annoy me for the delight of those confounded Britishers.”
The officer looked at us.
“He is an English bankrupt subject, to the jurisdiction of our laws, and a felon,” I observed.
“I calculate that’s very tall talk, all that, and when you catch me back in that old country of yours you may be all right, I dare say; but I tell you, sir, that if you keep me here till after that ship’s gone, you’ll have a very pretty penny to pay, that you will, I reckon.”
“You must come with us to the maire,” the sergeant said.
“Oh, I guess if you say I must, that I must; but here—look—here is my passport. It’s all fair and square, you see. Now, mind what you do to an American citizen—that’s all I tell you now.”
The hissing of the steam increased.