"
"And if it be," replied the other, "you must ask him who shaped his
legs, that you may send yours to be mended."
"Who the devil can see my legs through that boot?"
"Oh, if to veil them be your reason, pray ask him immediately."
"And so I will, for I think the boot perfection."
At these words, he was making towards Sobieski with two or three long
strides, when his companion pulled him back.
"Surely, Harwold, you will not be so ridiculous? He appears to be a
foreigner of rank, and may take offence, and give you the length of
his foot!"
"Curse him and rank too; he is some paltry emigrant, I warrant! I
care nothing about his foot or his legs, but I should like to know
who made his boots!"
While he spoke he would have dragged his companion along with him,
but Barrington broke from his arm; and the fool, who now thought
himself dared to it, strode up close to the chair, and bowed to
Thaddeus, who (hardly crediting that he could be the subject of this
dialogue) returned the salutation with a cold bend of his head.
Harwold looked a little confounded at this haughty demeanor; and,
once in his life, blushing at his own insolence, he roared out, as if
in defiance of shame.
"Pray, sir, where did you get your boots?"
"Where I got my sword, sir," replied Thaddeus, calmly; and rising
from his seat, he darted his eyes disdainfully on the coxcomb, and
walked slowly down the Mall.
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