A grin and bow, and something mumbled between his teeth.
"Take a weed?"
We smoke.
"James is getting on well, I hope? Mon fils James improving, eh? Grand general one of these days, eh?"
"Oui, oui." Fills and drinks.
"Another Bonaparte, I suppose?"
"Ah! le grand homme" Wipes his eyes, and looks up to the ceiling.
"Well, we thrashed him for all that! Faith, we made him dance in Spain and Portugal. What do you say to Talavera and Vittoria?"
Swears like a trooper, and rattles out whole volumes of French, with gestures that are all but blows. I wait till it 's over, and just say "Waterloo!"
This nearly drives him crazy, and he forgets to put water in his glass; and off he goes about Waterloo in a way that's dreadful to look at. I suppose, if I understood him, I 'd break his neck; but as I don't, I only go on saying "Waterloo" at intervals; but every time I utter it, he has to blow off the steam again. When the rum is finished, he usually rushes out of the room, gnashing his teeth, and screaming something about St. Helena. But it 's all over the next day, and he 's as polite as ever when we meet,—grins, and hands me his tin snuff-box with the air of an emperor. They 're a wonderful people, Tom; and though they 'd murder you, they 'd never forget to make a bow to your corpse.