If his manners put me in mind of those of a
Frenchman, his local prejudices brought powerfully to my
recollection those of a Spaniard. Tom Jenkins swears by Bala and
abuses Llangollen, and calls its people drunkards, just as a
Spaniard exalts his own village and vituperates the next and its
inhabitants, whom, though he will not call them drunkards, unless
indeed he happens to be a Gallegan, he will not hesitate to term
"una caterva de pillos y embusteros."
The dinner when it appeared was excellent, and consisted of many
more articles than I had ordered. After dinner, as I sat
"trifling" with my cold brandy and water, an individual entered, a
short thick dumpy man about thirty, with brown clothes and a broad
hat, and holding in his hand a large leather bag. He gave me a
familiar nod, and passing by the table at which I sat, to one near
the window, he flung the bag upon it, and seating himself in a
chair with his profile towards me, he untied the bag, from which he
poured a large quantity of sovereigns upon the table and fell to
counting them. After counting them three times he placed them
again in the bag which he tied up, then taking a small book,
seemingly an account-book, out of his pocket, he wrote something in
it with a pencil, then putting it in his pocket he took the bag and
unlocking a beaufet which stood at some distance behind him against
the wall, he put the bag into a drawer; then again locking the
beaufet he sat down in the chair, then tilting the chair back upon
its hind legs he kept swaying himself backwards and forwards upon
it, his toes sometimes upon the ground, sometimes mounting until
they tapped against the nether side of the table, surveying me all
the time with a queer kind of a side glance, and occasionally
ejecting saliva upon the carpet in the direction of place where I
sat.
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