"I asked before, and I ask again, what has become of the ship-loads of honest British guineas you Dons have been pocketing for I don’t know how long? Tell me that! What have you got to show for ’em, eh?—that’s what I want to know. Here are we, without a stiver to our name, no pay for weeks, and no chance of seeing any. And look at this: here’s a boot for you; that’s what your Spanish mud makes o’ good Bermondsey leather; and rain—well, of all the rain I ever see, blest if it ain’t the wettest!" He paused; the knot of Riflemen grunted approval. The Spaniards, who had by this time become aware that his remarks were aimed directly at them, turned enquiringly to one of their number, who shrugged, and gave them in Spanish the heads of the speaker’s argument. Perceiving that he had made some impression, the corporal proceeded to follow up his advantage. "What I want to know is, what ’ave we come here for? They did say as we were sent for to help you Dons fight the French. That’s what they said. Well, the French are all right; but what are you doing? We showed you the way at Vimeiro; that’s a long time ago now—what have you done since? Where are all the armies and the generals you talked so much about? What’s become of them? Tell me that! Here we’ve been in Salamanky a matter of fourteen days, but we ain’t seen none of them. There’s plenty of you Dons about, sure enough, but you don’t look to me like fighting-men. Where are you hiding ’em?—that’s what I want to know." There was no mistaking the glance of withering contempt with which the speaker pointed his questions; a movement of resentment was already visible among his mixed audience. The interpreter, whose dress proclaimed him a seaman from one of the Biscayan ports, was now volubly rendering the gist of the Englishman’s taunts, to an accompaniment of strange oaths and ominous murmurs from the crowd. Warming with their sympathy, he became more and more excited, passed from explanation to denunciation, and then, turning suddenly from his compatriots, clenched his fist and poured out a torrent of abuse in a lurid mixture of Basque and Billingsgate. The corporal, recognizing phrases that could only have been picked up at Deptford or Wapping, smiled appreciatively, and, with a wink at his companions, said: "Ain’t it like home? He ought to be a drill-sergeant—eh, boys?"