“What does he say?” said the traveller, in a very decided western accent.
“You must get out, sir” said he.
“Tare-an-ages,” said Mr. Moriarty, “what’s wrong?”
After considerable squeezing, for he weighed about twenty stone, he disengaged himself from the body of the “Diligence,” and stood erect upon the ground. A second lantern was now produced, and while one of the officers stood on either side of him, with a light beside his face, a third read out the clauses of the passport, and compared the description with the original. Happily, Mr. Moriarty’s ignorance of French saved him from the penalty of listening to the comments which were passed upon his “nez retroussé” “bouche ouverte” &c.; but what was his surprise when, producing some yards of tape, they proceeded to measure him round the body, comparing the number of inches his circumference made, with the passport.
“Quatre-vingt-dix pouces,” said the measurer, looking at the document, “Il en a plus,” added he, rudely.
“What is he saying, sir, if I might be so bowld?” said Mr. Moriarty to me, imploringly.
“You measure more than is set down in your passport,” said I, endeavouring to suppress my laughter.
“Oh, murther! that dish of boiled beef and beet-root will be the ruin of me. Tell them, sir, I was like a greyhound before supper.”