Something like a sob broke from Pinkerton. “Tell him,” he gasped—“I can't speak this language, though I understand a little; I never had any proper education—tell him I'm going to punch his head.”
“For God's sake, do nothing of the sort!” I cried. “They don't understand that sort of thing here.” And I tried to bundle him out.
“Tell him first what we think of him,” he objected. “Let me tell him what he looks in the eyes of a pure-minded American”
“Leave that to me,” said I, thrusting Pinkerton clear through the door.
“Qu'est-ce qu'il a?” [1] inquired the student.
[1] “What's the matter with him?”
“Monsieur se sent mal au coeur d'avoir trop regarde votre croute,” [2] said I, and made my escape, scarce with dignity, at Pinkerton's heels.
[2] “The gentleman is sick at his stomach from having looked too long at your daub.”
“What did you say to him?” he asked.
“The only thing that he could feel,” was my reply.