"Have you been long in England?" I inquired.
"'Es—no; a few months—or 'ears. I not know."
"You speak the language extremely well, considering you have been here so short a time."
The foreigner twirled his moustaches, and took a pull at the tumbler.
"I must say John Bull, though a little rough in his manner, is very kind and generous to foreigners."
"Ver'; too mosh," said Catsbach.
"And this is truly and honourably called the home of the patriot and the exile," I said.
"The fact is," said Mr Catsbach, in a perfectly English pronunciation, and with some energy, "our friend Jack is the greatest fool alive."
I started back. "Why, how well you speak," I cried; "but who is Jack?"
"Why, John Bull," he said. "The shallowest, bellowingest old beast that ever carried a horn. You talk of those exiles and fellows who can find no living in their own country, and come over here to eat up the fat of the land."