I was forced to admit that I had acted very clumsily. I humbly begged her pardon. I would never do it again. Her next bridegroom might be a Mohammedan, for all that I cared.
"You never could speak sensibly to me. No matter! I'll bring Wenceslaus Kvatopil back here one of these days."
And off she went in a huff.
This interruption had annoyed me. I had lots to do. I had to write the addresses of our subscribers on the covers of the neatly folded newspapers. This was not an ideal occupation, especially when one had to paste on the wrappers as well, which it was also my business to do. Some proof-sheets were also awaiting me with a lot of printers' errors. It was a realization of the proverb, "When the church is poor, the parson tolls the bell himself." In my leisure hours, however—my time of repose—I went on with my romance, "A Hungarian Nabob"; the idea of the principal character I had borrowed from a story of my wife's.
A couple of weeks elapsed. One evening, when I was hesitating whether I should go and see about my oil-lamp myself, or wait till clerk Coloman returned home from the post, or the chamber-maid from the theatre, whither she had gone to carry my consort her costume in a basket, a violent ringing began outside. I had to go and open the door myself.
To my great surprise, I saw Bessy before me with her lieutenant on her arm.
Wenceslaus Kvatopil was bubbling over with affability.
"Here I am again, sir. They have arrested me, and put me in chains. I must surrender."
Yes, I thought, when the starving garrison is reduced to horse-flesh.
"The siege was vigorous. Such batteries. Look! Those eyes! Congreve rockets are nothing in comparison. The star battery is already taken."