“Well, you are as impudent a chap as ever I listened to,” muttered my countryman at my side.
“The prisoners are dismissed, the court is adjourned,” said the president, rising; and amidst a very disorderly crowd, not certainly enthusiastic in our favor, we were all hurried into the street.
“Come along down here,” said Mr. Harpar. “I 'm in a very tidy sort of place they call the 'Golden Pig.' Come along, and bring the vagabonds, and let's have breakfast together.”
I was hurt at the speech; but as my companions could not understand its coarseness, I accepted the invitation, and we followed him.
“Well, I ain't seen your like for many a day,” said Harpar, as we went along. “If you 'd have said the half of that to one of our 'Beaks,' I think I know where you 'd be. But you seem to understand the fellows well. Mayhap you have lived much abroad?”
“A great deal. I am a sort of citizen of the world,” said I, with a jaunty easiness.
“For a citizen of the world you appear to have strange tastes in your companionship. How did you come to forgather with these creatures?”
I tried the timeworn cant about seeing life in all its gradations,—exploring the cabin as well as visiting the palace, and so on; but there was a rugged sort of incredulity in his manner that checked me, and I could not muster the glib rudeness which usually stood by me on such occasions.
“You 're not a man of fortune,” said he, dryly, as I finished; “one sees that plainly enough. You 're a fellow that should be earning his bread somehow; and the question is,—Is this the kind of life that you ought to be leading? What humbug it is to talk about knowing the world and such-like. The thing is, to know a trade, to understand some art, to be able to produce something, to manufacture something, to convert something to a useful purpose. When you 've done that, the knowledge of men will come later on, never be afraid of that. It's a school that we never miss one single day of our lives. But here we are; this is the 'Pig.' Now, what will you have for breakfast? Ask the vagabonds, too, and tell them there's a wide choice here; they have everything you can mention in this little inn.”
An excellent breakfast was soon spread out before us, and though my humble companions did it the most ample justice, I sat there, thoughtful and almost sad. The words of that stranger rang in my ears like a reproach and a warning. I knew how truly he had said that I was not a man of fortune, and it grieved me sorely to think how easily he saw it. In my heart of hearts I knew it was the delusion I loved best To appear to the world at large an eccentric man of good means, free to do what he liked and go where he would, was the highest enjoyment I had ever prepared for myself; and yet here was a coarse, commonplace sort of man,—at least, his manners were unpolished and his tone underbred,—and he saw through it all at once.