It is a shame to abuse his gentle, smiling good-nature and affability, but, what the good year! self-preservation is the first law of Nature. My business at this crisis is not to bandy compliments with a polite shopman, but to snatch my acquisitive Bosom's Lord as swiftly as it may be from bankruptcy. When the shopman says he does not understand me, I pepper him at once with another staggerer. "_Milles bombes!_" I cry, "what have you done with M. Zola?" "M. Zola!" he exclaims, looking pathetically bewildered; "_Vraiment, M'sieur_, I do not know." "You're quite right," I answer meditatively. Then, turning to Madame, I explain: "Sold out. Empress of China sent for the last this morning. Fresh cargo expected from Patagonia in the spring"; and hastily grabbing her umbrella I snatch her out of the shop before she can say "Wee-wee." * * * * * It worked very well at first. Then she got in the way of grabbing her umbrella in her own hand at the critical moment, and when I turned to go she would say, "Yes, I know what you are going to say, my dear; they're sold out again. It must be, as you suggest, the curious custom of the country. But do not be discouraged; ask him whether they have any alpaca skirts with dotted foulards in two-inch wristbands of shot moiré gussets and squashed strawberry ruchings to the sleeve, rosettes of guipure and bronze-powdered swordgrass flounces with Imogen ruffles round the waist." Then the situation complicates itself; it becomes needful to prepare the _grand coup_. I approach the shopman with a determined air, and with faltering speech, and eyes that wildly glare; I give it him in French, as thus--"Look at here, young fellow, unaccustomed as I am to public speaking, I say that drink is a curse." He looks surprised, and shrugs his shoulders again as if once more to apologise. "Then bandy words no more with me," I cry; "for slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs receive our air, that moment they are free; they touch our country and their shackles fall." "_Mais, M'sieur_," he begins, but ere he can think of his little piece, I pour into him another broadside--"O native isle," I cry, adopting now a friendly, engaging, and rhapsodical air, "fair freedom's happiest seat! at thought of thee, my bounding pulses beat! For what country has such work-houses, such gin-palaces, such company promoters, such Sunday clothes, and such respectability?" He shakes his head, a little impatiently perhaps, and again begins, "_Mais, M'sieur_"-- "Yes, I know what you would plead," I interrupt, "but _milles tonnerres!_ is not your proprietor a lanthern-jawed, spider-legged, hump-backed, knock-kneed, flat-footed, swivel-eyed, chowder-headed old Paty du Clam?" Then his politeness gives way and the poison begins to work on him. He foams at the mouth and jerks out little broken bits of hissing and gurgling words.