St. Ives: Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in EnglandStevenson, Robert Louis
General
St. Ives: Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England
Stevenson, Robert Louis
French -- England -- Fiction; Prisoners of war -- Fiction
The attorney’s clerk was put to a stand. He could not think of force;
there was little sign of martial ardour about the landlord, and the
peasants were indifferent—they only listened, and gaped, and now
scratched a head, and now would get a light to their pipes from the
embers on the hearth. On the other hand, the Major and I put a bold
front on the business and defied him, not without some ground of law. In
this state of matters he proposed I should go along with him to one
Squire Merton, a great man of the neighbourhood, who was in the
commission of the peace, the end of his avenue but three lanes away. I
told him I would not stir a foot for him if it were to save his soul.
Next he proposed I should stay all night where I was, and the constable
could see to my affair in the morning, when he was sober. I replied I
should go when and where I pleased; that we were lawful travellers in the
fear of God and the king, and I for one would suffer myself to be stayed
by nobody. At the same time, I was thinking the matter had lasted
altogether too long, and I determined to bring it to an end at once.
‘See here,’ said I, getting up, for till now I had remained carelessly
seated, ‘there’s only one way to decide a thing like this—only one way
that’s right _English_—and that’s man to man. Take off your coat, sir,
and these gentlemen shall see fair play.’ At this there came a look in
his eye that I could not mistake. His education had been neglected in
one essential and eminently British particular: he could not box. No
more could I, you may say; but then I had the more impudence—and I had
made the proposal.
‘He says I’m no Englishman, but the proof of the pudding is the eating of
it,’ I continued. And here I stripped my coat and fell into the proper
attitude, which was just about all I knew of this barbarian art. ‘Why,
sir, you seem to me to hang back a little,’ said I. ‘Come, I’ll meet
you; I’ll give you an appetiser—though hang me if I can understand the
man that wants any enticement to hold up his hands.’ I drew a bank-note
out of my fob and tossed it to the landlord. ‘There are the stakes,’
said I. ‘I’ll fight you for first blood, since you seem to make so much
work about it. If you tap my claret first, there are five guineas for
you, and I’ll go with you to any squire you choose to mention. If I tap
yours, you’ll perhaps let on that I’m the better man, and allow me to go
about my lawful business at my own time and convenience, by God; is that
fair, my lads?’ says I, appealing to the company.
‘Ay, ay,’ said the chorus of chawbacons; ‘he can’t say no fairer nor
that, he can’t. Take off thy coat master!’
The limb of the law was now on the wrong side of public opinion, and,
what heartened me to go on, the position was rapidly changing in our
favour. Already the Major was paying his shot to the very indifferent
landlord, and I could see the white face of King at the back-door, making
signals of haste.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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