Stumpy's relief of mind at Leicester's intelligence that they were cast ashore in France instead of Ireland was intense, and he fell to and ate heartily of the food which Leicester had brought, but not until he had seen Leicester himself hard at work in a similar way.
The French peasants hung round them while they ate the bread and meat, and then were for taking them into the village to be examined by the notary.
But Leicester, after a moment's conference with Stumpy, told the simple people that he and his companion were very tired, and that they would prefer to rest a while before presenting themselves for examination.
The peasants, with true French politeness, immediately left them.
"Now," said Leicester, as the blue blouse disappeared round the corner, "we must give those good people the slip, I suppose. Do you speak French?"
Stumpy shook his head.
"The only furrin language I knows, guv-nor, is a bit o' Spanish."
"Spanish!" said Leicester. "The very thing. I know enough of it to pass muster in a society where it is seldom spoken. Stumpy, I see it all. I must be a Spanish artist, a musician, and you—if you don't mind playing second fiddle—shall be my servant."
Then he decided to tell Stumpy his story; and a wronged man never had a more sympathetic listener.