There was one young Kentish
squire, Farley was his name, who had earned a reputation in the town as
a bully and a roisterer. He could not meet one of us without uttering
insults not merely against the present French Government, which might
have been excusable in an English patriot, but against France itself and
all Frenchmen. Often we were forced to be deaf in his presence, but at
last his conduct became so intolerable that I determined to teach him a
lesson. There were several of us in the coffee-room at the Green Man
one evening, and he, full of wine and malice, was heaping insults upon
the French, his eyes creeping round to me every moment to see how I was
taking it. 'Now, Monsieur de Laval,' he cried, putting his rude hand
upon my shoulder, 'here is a toast for you to drink. This is to the
arm of Nelson which strikes down the French.' He stood leering at me to
see if I would drink it. 'Well, sir,' said I, 'I will drink your toast
if you will drink mine in return.' 'Come on, then!' said he. So we
drank. 'Now, monsieur, let us have your toast,' said he.
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