“I’ll till ye a secret, which heretofore I’ve always neglicted to mintion to anybody.  Here I’m Henry Battersleigh, agent of the British-American Colonization Society.  On t’other side I might be Cuthbert Allen Wingate-Galt.  An’ Etcetera, man; etcetera, to God knows what.  Don’t mintion it, Ned, till I’ve gone away, fer I’ve loved the life here so—­I’ve so enjoyed bein’ just Batty, agent, and so forth!  Belave me, Ned, it’s much comfortabler to be merely a’ And-so-forth thin it is to be an’ Etcetera.  An’ I’ve loved ye so, Ned!  Ye’re the noblest nobleman I ivver knew or ivver expict to know.”

Franklin sat gazing at him without speech, and presently Battersleigh went on.

“It’s a bit of a story, lad,” said he kindly.  “Ye see, I’ve been a poor man all me life, ye may say, though the nephew of one of the richest women in the United Kingdom—­an’ the stingiest.  Instid of doin’ her obvayus juty an’ supportin’ her nephew in becomin’ station, she marries a poor little lordlet boy, an’ forsakes me entirely.  Wasn’t it hijjus of her?  There may have been raysons satisfyin’ to her own mind, but she nivver convinced me that it was Christian conduct on her part.  So I wint with the Rile Irish, and fought fer the Widdy.  So what with likin’ the stir an’ at the same time the safety an’ comfort o’ the wars, an’ what with now an’ thin a flirtashun in wan colour or another o’ the human rainbow, with a bit of sport an’ ridin’ enough to kape me waist, I’ve been in the Rile Irish ivver since—­whin not somewhere ilse; though mostly, Ned, me boy, stone broke, an’ ownin’ no more than me bed an’ me arms.  Ye know this, Ned.”

“Yes,” said Franklin, “I know, Battersleigh.  You’ve been a proud one,”

“Tut, tut, me boy; nivver mind.  Ye’ll know I came out here to make me fortune, there bein’ no more fightin’ daycint enough to engage the attention of a gintleman annywhere upon the globe.  I came to make me fortune.  An’ I’ve made it.  An’ I confiss to ye with contrition, Ned, me dear boy, I’m Cubberd Allen Wiggit-Galt, Etcetera !”

After his fashion Franklin sat silent, waiting for the other’s speech.

“Ned,” said Battersleigh at length, “till me, who’s the people of the intire worrld that has the most serane belief in their own shupayriority?”

“New-Yorkers,” said Franklin calmly.

“Wrong.  Ye mustn’t joke, me boy.  No.  It’s the English.  Shure, they’re the consatedest people in the whole worrld.  An’ now, thin, who’s the wisest people in the worrld?”

“The Americans,” said Franklin promptly again.

“Wrong agin.  It’s thim same d——­d domineerin’ idjits, the yally-headed subjecks o’ the Widdy.  An’ pfwhy are they wise?”

“You’ll have to tell,” said Franklin.

“Then I’ll till ye.  It’s because they have a sacra fames fer all the land on earth.”

“They’re no worse than we,” said Franklin.  “Look at our Land-Office records here for the past year.”