“Let me tell you the French gentleman is a friend of mine, and lives in my house,” he blurted out.
“Oh, indeed! A friend of yours, is he? And you and he live in the same cellar, I suppose, and share the vermin? I’m not surprised.”
“He doesn’t live in a cellar. You’d better say no more about him; I won’t stand it.”
“I’ll say what I like without asking you. He’s a miserable old scarecrow of a foreigner, and we don’t want people like him in London. He would make a good guy for the Fifth of November. I’d like to light some crackers under him and see him jump.”
This was more than Martin could stand. Dropping the salver he was polishing, he rushed at the ’prentice with such impetuosity that the boy lost his balance and fell. Up again in an instant, he closed with Martin, and, forgetting everything else, the two began to fight in the narrow space behind the counter.
“Look out!” warned the ’prentice looking on.
But the warning came too late. They lurched against one of the glass-cases containing jewellery. There was a crash. Splinters of glass fell all about the floor, the door of Mr. Slocum’s den flew open, and Mr. Slocum himself, pale with anger, dashed out, followed by the old Frenchman.
“You again, you young villain!” roared the goldsmith.
He caught Martin by the ear, lugged him to the door, and shot him into the street with a parting kick.
“Don’t you dare to show your face here again,” he cried, “or I’ll thrash you black and blue.”