Poins." That he and a friend travelled utterly without baggage, buying a
shirt where a shirt was needed, is a fact, and the incident is used in
"The Wrecker." Legend says that once he and a friend _did_ possess a
bag, and also, nobody ever knew why, a large bottle of scent. But there
was no room for the bottle in the bag, so Mr. Stevenson spilled the whole
contents over the other man's head, taking him unawares, that nothing
might be wasted. I think the tale of the endless staircase, in "The
Wrecker," is founded on fact, so are the stories of the _atelier_, which
I have heard Mr. Stevenson narrate at the Oxford and Cambridge Club. For
a nocturnal adventure, in the manner of the "New Arabian Nights," a
learned critic already spoken of must be consulted. It is not my story.
In Paris, at a cafe, I remember that Mr. Stevenson heard a Frenchman say
the English were cowards. He got up and slapped the man's face.

"_Monsieur, vous m'avez frappe_!" said the Gaul.

"_A ce qu'il parait_," said the Scot, and there it ended. He also told
me that years ago he was present at a play, I forget what play, in Paris,
where the moral hero exposes a woman "with a history." He got up and
went out, saying to himself:

"What a play! what a people!"

"_Ah, Monsieur, vous etes bien jeune_!" said an old French gentleman.

Like a right Scot, Mr. Stevenson was fond of "our auld ally of France,"
to whom our country and our exiled kings owed so much.

I rather vaguely remember another anecdote. He missed his train from
Edinburgh to London, and his sole portable property was a return ticket,