solvents—and I vowed, you know, to make you repent dem boots. Dere, now, it is done and forgotten, look you. Here Betty, Bettchen, make de spare bed, and put a clean knife and fork; Lort Cornvallis is come to dine vid me."
I lived with this strange old man for six weeks. I kept his books, and did what little I could to make myself useful: carrying about books and shoes, as if I had never borne His Majesty’s commission. He gave me no money, but he fed and lodged me comfortably. The men and boys used to laugh, and call me General, and Lord Cornwallis, and all sorts of nick-names—and old Stiffelkind made a thousand new ones for me.
One day, I can recollect—one miserable day, as I was polishing on the trees a pair of boots of Mr. Stiffelkind’s manufacture—the old gentleman came into the shop, with a lady on his arm.
"Vere is Gaptain Stobbs," says he, "vere is dat ornament to His Majesty's service?"
I came in from the back shop, where I was polishing the boots, with one of them in my hand.
