Jack sat down on a bench within the bar-room, and listened to the conversation, or rather the declamation, of the men at the door. While he sat there waiting with scant patience, for he was very hungry, the sound of horses’ hoofs was heard approaching, mingled with the clank of steel. The knot at the door melted away as by magic, and a few moments later a small party of horsemen clattered into the courtyard, and loud voices were heard calling to the inn servants. In a minute or two a portly French officer clanked into the room, now empty save for Jack. He was clad in a uniform of some brilliance, with a heavy shako and an embroidered white cloak, and the stone floor resounded to the tread of his heavy spurred riding-boots. Giving a casual glance at Jack, who was staying his hunger with a crust of dry bread until the egg should appear, the officer strode up to the low counter, smote it heavily with his riding-whip, and bellowed for the landlord, in execrable Spanish, freely interlarded with French expletives. "Ohé, landlord!" he shouted. "Palsambleu! Where has the hog hidden himself? Ohé! Come out of your pig-stye, canaille that you are, and bring me some food." He continued shouting and belabouring the counter, setting the crockery rattling on the big dresser behind. "Nice manners!" said Jack to himself, closely watching the new-comer. "I wonder who he is!" At this moment the landlord entered with a fried egg, which he brought to Jack without giving more than one sullen glance to the boisterous officer. This neglect wounded the gentleman’s dignity; he strode across the room and, lifting his whip, spluttered: "Insolent dog! Don’t you hear? I order you to bring me food, and, palsambleu! you had better hurry. What do you mean by keeping an officer of the emperor waiting while you serve a beggarly tradesman?" "In a moment, Señor," said the landlord, setting the dish before Jack. "Would the noble marquis like my egg?" said Jack meekly in bad French. "Egg!" The officer snorted his contempt for such frugal fare. "Look you, landlord, I want soup to begin with, and then a mayonnaise—sweet olive-oil, mind you—and a capon well basted to follow, and—" "Señor, Señor," interrupted the landlord, "I’ve not any such things on the premises. Your dragoons have eaten me up already. I can give you an omelet—" "An omelet! Morbleu, landlord! If you don’t hurry with something more substantial than an omelet I’ll slice your fat cheeks into collops." [Illustration: A Question of Supply] He glared at the Spaniard and laid his hand on his sword; and the landlord, giving up all attempt to preserve his dignity further, scuttled through the door leading to his kitchen.