ed. Peter quickly
caught his knife-wrist with one hand and his throat with the other, and
demanded an apology. He got it. The Lisbon _boulevardiers_ have not
lost any lions.

After that there was a bit of a squash in our corner. Those near to us
were very quiet and polite, but the outer fringe made remarks. When
Peter said that if Portugal, which he admitted he loved, was going to
stick to England she was backing the wrong horse, there was a murmur of
disapproval. One decent-looking old fellow, who had the air of a
ship's captain, flushed all over his honest face, and stood up looking
straight at Peter. I saw that we had struck an Englishman, and
mentioned it to Peter in Dutch.

Peter played his part perfectly. He suddenly shut up, and, with
furtive looks around him, began to jabber to me in a low voice. He was
the very picture of the old stage conspirator.

The old fellow stood staring at us. 'I don't very well understand this
damned lingo,' he said; 'but if so be you dirty Dutchmen are sayin'
anything against England, I'll ask you to repeat it. And if so be as
you repeats it I'll take either of you on and knock the face off him.'

He was a chap after my own heart, but I had to keep the game up. I
said in Dutch to Peter that we mustn't get brawling in a public house.
'Remember the big thing,' I said darkly. Peter nodded, and the old
fellow, after staring at us for a bit, spat scornfully, and walked out.

'The time is coming when the Englander will sing small,' I observed to
the crowd. We stood drinks to one or two, and then swaggered into the
street. At the door a hand touched my arm, and, looking down, I saw a
little scrap of a man in a fur coat.

'Will the gentlemen walk a step with me and drink a glass of beer?' he
said in very stiff Dutch.

'Who the devil are you?' I asked.

'_Gott strafe England!_' was his answer, and, turning back the lapel of
his coat, he showed some kind of ribbon in his buttonhole.

'Amen,' said Peter. 'Lead on, friend. We don't mind if we do.'

He led us to a back street and then up two pairs of stairs to a very
snug little flat. The place was filled with fine red lacquer, and I
guessed that art-dealing was his nominal business. Portugal, since the
republic broke up the convents and sold up the big royalist grandees,
was full of bargains in the lacquer and curio line.

He filled us two long tankards of very good Munich beer.

'_Prosit_,' he said, raising his gl