“Vy, Lort Cornvallis to be sure—a very fat yong nobeman, vid red hair: he squints a little, and svears dreadfully.”
“There's no Lord Cornvallis here,” said one; and there was a pause.
“Stop! I have it,” says that odious Bunting. “IT MUST BE STUBBS!” And “Stubbs! Stubbs!” every one cried out, while I was so busy at my book as not to hear a word.
At last, two of the biggest chaps rushed into the schoolroom, and seizing each an arm, run me into the playground—bolt up against the shoemaker.
“Dis is my man. I beg your lortship's pardon,” says he, “I have brought your lortship's shoes, vich you left. See, dey have been in dis parcel ever since you vent avay in my boots.”
“Shoes, fellow!” says I. “I never saw your face before!” For I knew there was nothing for it but brazening it out. “Upon the honor of a gentleman!” said I, turning round to the boys. They hesitated; and if the trick had turned in my favor, fifty of them would have seized hold of Stiffelkind and drubbed him soundly.
“Stop!” says Bunting (hang him!) “Let's see the shoes. If they fit him, why then the cobbler's right.” They did fit me; and not only that, but the name of STUBBS was written in them at full length.
“Vat!” said Stiffelkind. “Is he not a lort? So help me Himmel, I never did vonce tink of looking at de shoes, which have been lying ever since in dis piece of brown paper.” And then, gathering anger as he went on, he thundered out so much of his abuse of me, in his German-English, that the boys roared with laughter. Swishtail came in in the midst of the disturbance, and asked what the noise meant.
“It's only Lord Cornwallis, sir,” said the boys, “battling with his shoemaker about the price of a pair of top-boots.”
“Oh, sir,” said I, “it was only in fun that I called myself Lord Cornwallis.”