"And representing society, as I do in my proper person here, sir,
I say that any man who would go into the country in the latter part of
September is a---"
"A what, sir?" said Mr. P., nervously fingering his umbrella.
"Yes, sir, he is, sir!"
"Do you say that, sir?"
"In your teeth, sir!"
"'Tis false, sir!"
"What, sir?"
"Just so, sir!"
"To me, sir?"
"To you, sir!"
The Count JOANNES drew his sword.
Mr. P. stood _en garde_.
Just at this moment the Greenwich Street Cordwainers' Target
Association, preceded by one half the whole body of Metropolitan Police,
approached the spot. The Target Society were out on a street parade, and
the policemen marched before them to clear Broadway of all vehicles and
foot-passengers, and to stop short, for the time, the business of a
great city, in order that these twenty spindle-legged and melancholy
little cobblers might have a proper opportunity of showing their utter
ignorance of all rules of marching, and the management of firearms.
Perceiving this vast body of police, with Superintendent JOURDAN at its
head, advancing with measured tread upon them, the Count sheathed his
sword and Mr. P. shut up his deadly weapon.
Slowly and in opposite directions they withdrew from the ground.
It was too late for Mr. P.'s train, and he returned to his home. There,
in the solitude of his private apartments, he came to the conclusion
that it would be useless to oppose the decrees of Society.
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