“Good morrow to you, Cuffe,” said Dashwood, giving the other the tip of his fingers, as soon as the ceremonious part of the reception was over; and casting a glance, half admiring, half critical, at the appearance of things on deck—­“What has Nelson sent us down here about this fine morning, and—­ha!—­how long have you had those brass ornaments on your capstan?”

“They were only put there yesterday, Sir Frederick; a little slush money did it all.”

“Has Nelson seen them?  I rather fancy not—­they tell me he’s as savage as an Arab about knick-knackery nowadays.  What an awkward job that was yesterday afternoon, by the way, Cuffe!”

“It has been a bad business, and, as an old Agamemnon, I would give a year’s rank that it never had taken place.”

“A year’s rank!—­that’s a great deal; a year would set me back, hard aground alongside of old Lyon, here.  I was a lieutenant less than three years since and couldn’t afford half a year.  But all you old Agamemnons think as much of your little Nel. as if he were a pretty girl; isn’t it true, Lyon?”

“I dare say it may be, Sir Frederick,” answered Lyon; “and if you had been the first lieutenant of a two-decker, off Cape St. Vincent, on the 14th February, 1797, you would have thought as much of him too.  Here we were, only fifteen sail in all—­that is, of vessels of the line—­with the wind at—­”

“Oh, hang your battle, Lyon, I’ve heard all that at least seventeen times!”

“Well, if ye haave, Sir Frederick,” returned Lyon, who was a Scotchman, “it’ll be just once a year since ye war’ born, leaving out the time ye war’ in the nursery.  But we’ve not come here to enlighten Captain Cuffe in these particulars, so much as in obedience to an order of the rear-admiral’s—­little Nel., as ye’ll be calling him, I suppose, Sir Frederick Dashwood?”

“Nay, it’s you old Agamemnons, or old fellows, who gave him that name—­”

“Ye’ll please to excuse me, sir,” interrupted Lyon, a little dogmatically—­“ye’ve never heard me call him anything but my lord, since His Majesty, God bless him! was graciously pleased to elevate him to the peerage—­nothing but ‘my lord,’ and the ‘rear-admiral’; naval rank being entitled to its privileges even on the throne.  Many a king has been a colonel, and I see no disparagement in one’s being an admiral.  Won’t ye be thinking, Captain Cuffe, that since my lord is made Duke of Bronte, he is entitled to be called ’Your Grace’—­all the Scottish dukes are so designated, and I see no reason why the rear-admiral should not have his just dues as well as the best of them.”

“Let him alone for that,” said Cuffe, laughing; “Nel. will look out for himself, as well as for the king.  But, gentlemen, I suppose you have not come down here merely for a morning walk—­have I any reports to hear?”

“I beg your pardon, Captain Cuffe, but I was really forgetting my errand,” answered Dashwood.  “Here are your orders, and we are both directed to report to you.  The lieutenant who brought the package aboard me said there would be a spy to try, and a lugger to catch.  Did they tell you anything of this matter, Lyon?”