tles." I saw it was no use
to resist, so out they went. "Fling out those dishes" was the next
command. "The dishes?--they will break." "I am going to break them
all." Capital fun this. Out go the dishes; "and may the ----." I fear I
was about to say something bad. "Fling out those knives, and those
things with sharp points"--(the old villain did not know what to call
the forks!)--"and those shells with handles to them"--(spoons!)--"out
with everything." The last sweeping order is obeyed, and the kitchen is
fairly empty. The worst is over now at last, thank goodness, said I to
myself. "Strip off all your clothes." "What?--strip naked!--you
desperate old thief--mind your eye." Human patience could bear no more.
Out I jumped. I did "strip." Off came my jacket. "How would you prefer
being killed, old ruffian?--can you do anything in this way?" (Here a
pugilistic demonstration.) "Strip!--he doesn't mean to give me five
dozen, does he?" said I, rather bewildered, and looking sharp to see if
he had anything like an instrument of flagellation in his possession.
"Come on!--what are you waiting for?" said I.

In those days, when labouring under what Dickens calls the "description
of temporary insanity which arises from a sense of injury," I always
involuntarily fell back upon my mother tongue; which in this case was
perhaps fortunate, as my necromantic old friend did not appreciate the
full force of my eloquence. He could not, however, mistake my warlike
and rebellious attitude, and could see clearly I was going into one of
those most unaccountable rages that pakehas were liable to fly into,
without any imaginable cause. "Boy," said he, gravely and quietly, and
without seeming to notice my very noticeable declaration of war and
independence, "don't act foolishly; don't go mad. No one will ever come
near you while you have those clothes. You will be miserable here by
yourself. And what is the use of being angry?--what will _anger_ do for
you?" The perfect coolness of my old friend, the complete disregard he
paid to my explosion of wrath, as well as his reasoning, began to make
me feel a little disconcerted. He evidently had come with the purpose
and intention to get me out of a very awkward scrape, and I began also
to feel that, looking at the affair from his point of view, I was just
possibly not making a very respectable figure: then, if I understood
him rightly, there would be no _flogging_. "Well," said I, at last,
"Fate compe