ty.
Besides, Madame de Verneuil has a fortune which will suffice her needs
and of which I will not touch a penny.'"

I smiled, for I could see Paragot in his grand French manner, one hand
thrust between the buttons of his coat and the other waving
magnificently, as he proclaimed himself to Major Walters.

"I explained," he continued, "in terms which I thought might reach his
intelligence, that I only had to resume my profession and my financial
position would equal that of Madame de Verneuil. 'And, Sir,' said I, 'I
will not suffer you to say another word.' We bowed, and parted enemies.
Wherefore the conversation of the excellent Major Walters does not
appeal to me as attractive."

At the time I thought this very noble of Paragot. In a way it was so,
for my master, who had never committed a dishonourable action in his
life, was genuine in his scorn of the insinuation that he proposed to
live on Joanna's money. He verily believed himself capable of
reattaining fame and fortune. It was only the nuisance of having to do
so that, at introspective times, disconcerted him. He knew that to break
away from a thirteen-year-old habit of idleness would need considerable
effort. But he was a man, _nom d'un chien_!

To prove it he called for a quart of ale in the bar-parlour of the Black
Boar, an old coaching inn, set back from the road. The little eyes of
the fleshy rubicond host, loafing comfortably in shirt-sleeves,
glistened as he received the Pantagruelian order and brought the great
tankard with a modest half pint for me, and a jorum of rum for himself.
Paragot was worthy of a host's attention.

Paragot pledged him and literally poured the contents of the tankard
down his throat.

The landlord stared in an ecstasy of admiration.

"Well, I'm damned," said he.

"I'll take another," said Paragot.

The landlord brought another tankard.

"How do you manage it?" he asked.

Paragot explained that he had learned the art in Germany. You open your
throat to the good beer without moving the muscles whereby you swallow,
and down it goes.

"Well, I'm jiggered," said mine host.

"Have you no pretty drinkers hereabouts?" asked my master, sipping the
second quart.

"They lots of 'em comes here and gets fuddled, if that's what you mean."

Paragot waved an impatient hand. "To get fuddled on beer is not pretty
drinking. Haven't you any hard-headed topers who are famous in the
neighborhood? Men who can carry their liquor like g