"There isn' none present that remembers me, I dare say. My name's Bosistow—Billy Bosistow—from Ardevora parish. And back there I'm going this very night, and why? you ask. I ben't one of your taty-diggin' slowheads—I ben't. I've broke out of prison three times, and now" He nodded at the company, whose faces by this time he couldn't very well pick out of a heap—"do any of 'ee know a maid there called Selina Johns? Because if so I warn 'ee of her. 'Why?' says you. Because that's the maid I'm goin' to marry, and I'm off to Ardevora to do it straight. Another pot of beer, please, missus."
"You've had a plenty, sir, seemin' to me," answered up the landlady, while the company tittered.
"And is this the way"—Billy stood up very dignified—"is this the way to welcome home a man who bled for his country? Is this your gratitude to a man who's spent ten o' the best years of his life in slavery while you've been diggin' taties?" I can't tell you why potatoes ran so much in the poor fellow's head; but they did, and he seemed to see the hoeing of them almost in the light of a personal injury. He spat on the floor. "And as for you, madam, these here boots of mine have tramped thousands of miles, and I shake off their dust upon you," he says.
"I wish you'd confine yourself to that, with your dirty habits!" the landlady answered up again, but Billy marched out with great dignity which was only
