He was indignant that the young graduate should throw doubt on the breeches’ being made of officer’s cloth, but, being a Breton, coming from a village that went by the name of Penguern-Stereden, having learned French with as much difficulty as if it had been English or German, whenever he felt himself overcome by emotion he would go on saying “Sir?” to give himself time to find words, then, after this preparation, let loose his eloquence, confining himself to the repetition of certain words which he knew better than others, but without haste, taking every precaution to glose over his unfamiliarity with the pronunciation.

“Ah! It is cloth like that,” he broke out, with a fury the intensity of which increased as the speed of his utterance diminished. “Ah! It is cloth like that; when I tell you that it is, officer’s cloth, when-I-tell-you-a-thing, if-I-tell-you-a-thing, it’s because I know, I should think.”

“Very well, then;” replied the young graduate, overcome by the force of this argument. “Keep your hair on, old boy.”