“Keep the change. Here, landlord, I want my horse looked after, give him the best stall in the stable.”
“There is not a stall vacant, sir.”
“Then turn some horse out, and put mine in. I want a bed also, the best bed in the inn.”
“All my beds are occupied.”
“It matters not; do as I tell you, or you’ll repent it.”
“You are a werry rude bragadocia fellow to speak thus in the presence of gentlemen,” said Tom Bates to the stranger.
“What do you say, old bilberry nose? Mind your own business.”
“I say, sir, that in the presence of gentlemen—”
“Gentlemen, ha! ha!—that’s good, hang me if it isn’t—you look very much like a gentleman, certainly; if that large wart was off the tip of your nose it would much improve your appearance.”
“Sir-r-r!” growled Bates, rising in anger. “What do you mean? Do you know who I am?” said he, slapping his sword hilt.