"It would be delightful to expose their blunder,--to show them up.
Would it not, George? To turn the tables on them?"

"Yes," said I, "I should like to have the laugh against them."

"So would I, only that I should compromise myself by telling the
story. It wouldn't do at all to have it told at Oxford with my name
attached to it."

To this also I assented. To what would I not have assented in my
anxiety to make him happy after his misery?

But all was not over yet. He was in bed now, but it was necessary
that he should rise again on the morrow. At home, in England, what
was required might perhaps have been made during the night; but
here, among the slow Flemings, any such exertion would have been
impossible. Mr. Horne, moreover, had no desire to be troubled in
his retirement by a tailor.

Now the landlord of the Golden Fleece was a very stout man,--a very
stout man indeed. Looking at him as he stood with his hands in his
pockets at the portal of his own establishment, I could not but
think that he was stouter even than Mr. Horne. But then he was
certainly much shorter, and the want of due proportion probably
added to his unwieldy appearance. I walked round him once or twice
wishfully, measuring him in my eye, and thinking of what texture
might be the Sunday best of such a man. The clothes which he then
had on were certainly not exactly suited to Mr. Horne's tastes.