“It is impossible, sir,” said I, “that you can mistake me for Wolstang—seeing that, on my entry, you told me you expected that gentleman in a short time, and desired me to be seated till he came in.” At this he seemed a little disconcerted, and was beginning to mutter something in explanation, when I interrupted him. “Besides, sir, Wolstang is a man at least six inches taller, four stones heavier, and ten years older than I.”
“What an immense fellow he must be, my dear friend! At that rate, he ought to stand six feet eight inches, and weigh twenty stones.”
I could hardly retain my gravity at this calculation. “Pray, what do you take my stature and weight to be?”
“I should take you,” replied he, “to be about six feet two inches high, and to weigh some sixteen stones.”
This admeasurement raised my merriment to its acme, and I laughed aloud. “Know, then, my good little man, that all your geometry has availed you nothing, for I only stand five feet eight, and never weighed more than twelve stones.” He shrugged up his shoulders once more, and put on another of his incredulous looks.
“Eh, eh—I may be mistaken—but I—I—”
“Mistaken!” exclaimed I; “zounds, you were never more egregiously mistaken, even when you advocated the Pythagorean doctrine of Metempsychosis!”
“I may be wrong, but I could lay five gilders that I am right. I never bet high—just a trifle, just a trifle occasionally.”
“You had better keep your gilders in your pocket,” said I, “and not risk them so foolishly.”