“Turn that rascal into the street, John,” cried Goldsmith, and John bustled forward. There was fighting in the air. If it came to blows he flattered himself that he could give an interesting exhibition of his powers—not quite so showy, perhaps, as that given by the Italian, but one which he was certain was more English in its style.
“No one shall lay a hand on me,” said Jackson. “Do you fancy that I am anxious to remain in such a company?”
“Come, sir; you are in my charge, now,” said John, hustling him to the door. “Come—out with you—sharp!”
In the room they heard the sound of the man descending the stairs slowly and painfully. They became aware of his pause in the lobby below to put on the coat which John had given to him, and a moment later they saw him walk in the direction of the Temple lodge.
Then Goldsmith turned to Signor Nicolo, who was examining one of the prints that Hogarth had presented to his early friend, who had hung them on his wall.
“You came at an opportune moment, my friend,” said he. “You have not only saved my life, you have afforded me such entertainment as I never have known before. Sir, you are certainly the greatest living master of your art.”
“The best swordsman is the best patriot,” said Baretti.
“That is why so many of your countrymen live in England,” said Goldsmith.
“Alas! yes,” said Nicolo. “Happily you Englishmen are not good patriots, or you would not be able to live in England.”
“I am not an Englishman,” said Goldsmith. “I am an Irish patriot, and therefore I find it more convenient to live out of Ireland. Perhaps it is not good patriotism to say, as I do, 'Better to live in England than to starve in Ireland.' And talking of starving, sirs, reminds me that my dinner hour is nigh. What say you, Signor Nicolo? What say you, Baretti? Will you honour me with your company to dinner at the Crown and Anchor an hour hence? We shall chat over the old days at Pisa and the prospects of the Figli della Torre, Signor Nicolo. We cannot stay here, for it will take my servant and Mrs. Ginger a good two hours to sweep up the fragments of that rascal's garments. Lord! what a patchwork quilt Dr. Johnson's friend Mrs. Williams could make if she were nigh.”