“Now, I guess,” he continued, “that you’ll take me first to the consulate of the United States, won’t you?”
“No, to the maire.”
He looked round wistfully, and took out a ten-franc piece from his pocket.
“Who is there will go to the consul of the United States, and tell him that an American citizen wants his protection. Ask him to come to the maire before that steam-ship there can go away.”
Boggy grasped the piece of money.
“Here, I don’t mind doing that. An Englishman in trouble would like to have his consul’s advice. That’s only right.”
Away Boggy ran to fetch the guardian of the stars and stripes, as cheerfully as he had devoted himself to Mr. Driver’s discovery.
Three minutes took us to the maire. The American consul was there as soon as we were. The British consul was not there. The maire heard what the bankrupt and his consul had to say, and then ruled that there was no ground to justify the further detention of the bankrupt, who was protected by the passport of his nation. He could certainly not be given up under the English warrant, and he should not detain him unless his accusers could enter into sufficient recognisances, available in France, to indemnify the accused.
We had nobody present to enter into the required bonds; the extent of the risk was an unknown quantity, and the vagabond was set loose.
As he parted from us, he put his finger to his nose, and whistled a bar of “Hail Columbia.” He picked out a fusee from his pocket, then lit his cigar, and, with a degree of speed compatible with an air of mock stateliness, the blackguard walked down to the quay, then on board the ship, as she let slip her hawser.