thing was quite a novelty, and caused a
sensation. Frenchmen's eyes flashed fire
as they talked of it, but they were uneasy.
There would be something unfair they
were certain. No one laughed so loud as
Tom. " They row !" he said, " the poor
weak fools ! why, one of our tars would
beat them with his left hand tied behind
his back !"

Without going so far as this, there was
a certain impression in the colony on the
hill that victory would be with our countrymen;
and on the morning of the struggle
the Côte was crowded with people having
old glasses and telescopes, and all eagerly
looking down to the blue sea below Honfleur.
The blouses gathered behind, gesticulating
and chattering, their eyes darting fire and
hostility at the English. Tom was in a
real excitement, his father's old spyglass
under his arm, and striding about as if he
were captain of a ship.

The race was duly rowed. We could see
the four boats— four faint dots— far below
on the blue sea, a Paris dot, a Rouen one,
a Havre dot, and an English one— the
glorious scarlet!

"Six as fine of our tars, sir," said Tom,
the glass to his eye, "with their iron
muscles, as ever you saw!"

Three minutes did the work. One boat
gradually drawing yards, then furlongs,
ahead. At the end of the boat was a little
faint patch of red. Tom actually threw
his spyglass into the air.

"Old England for ever, boys! Give' em
a British cheer, lads! I knew we'd lick
'em!"

And we all raised a shout, and from the
windows of the English villas, where the
ladies were, fluttered white pocket-
handkerchiefs. The looks of the Frenchmen
were black as night.

Mr. John, who rarely missed anything
"sporting," had gone down into the town
to see the race as a gentlemanly spectator.
Of course he got into the best place on
board an English steamer, having made
an intimate acquaintance with the steward.
He brought back strange stories of the
excitement.

"Well, well, well! modyee! modyee!"
(A shape in his dialect for " Mon Dieu!")
"Oh the creatures! It was skyandalous
how they were treated; the hustlin', and
then the beatin' and then the crowd— forty-
five thousand people, no less, round the
creatures. Oh, it was shocking! A
regular E-mute!"

This we did not understand for a long time,
for it was a new word, and he was pleased
with it, and repeated it with great satisfac-
tion, " th' mute." More careful consideration
helped us to his meaning ; yet it was
too gentle a name, for Tom Butler had the
whole particulars, which he related to us in
boxing language. The cowardly French
had made a brutal attack on our brave
tars, and had beaten them— a great mob.
The "brave tars" had put their backs
against a wall, and had thrashed and
smashed right and left, knocking over the
cowardly sneaks, and pounding and maiming
them on good old English principles.

"But they were too many for them," went
on Tom, in a glowing indignation. " An
Englishman is a match for half a dozen
Frenchmen easy; but not for a thousand.
And only fancy the scoundrels— they draw
their penknives and get behind the brave
fellows, and stab them in the back. That's
manly— that's brave! Ain't it?"

Tom made many harangues that day to
various audiences, and within hearing,
whenever he could manage it, of various
natives of the country— a French gentleman
or two, who only smiled and passed
on. Once the great Leah went by, fiercely
gesticulating, stooping down to his friend,
and describing with infinite animation.
He had been down to see the contest, and
was clearly enjoying the retribution that
had overtaken the vile English. Tom
raised his voice, threw more scorn in, and
said very proudly, and with insufferable
oflfensiveness, " We shall have to give 'em
WATERLOO over again!"

It was like galvanism. The two French
youths twitched and started, their eyes
became bloodshot; they turned back, and
Tom, scenting battle, repeated his phrase,
with the talismanic word. Leah came
striding up, his eyes bloodshot, his arms
going, his blouse actually trembling. There
was, indeed, something going to happen,
and we all held our breath. Tom waited
for him, his lips curling, his breath getting
a little short, his fingers unconsciously
clenched into appropriate fighting shape.
The two Frenchmen came on, and at once
poured out a volley of ferocious vituperation
utterly unintelligible, Leah swaying
his arms, putting his chest close to Tom's,
and his mouth close to Tom's— (" Anything
like his rank garlic breath you never!"
said Tom)— and chattering all the time;
his head over Tom's, who remained quite
calm, never stirred or retreated an inch.
"But I was ready for him all the time, and
at the first motion would have had my fist