“Beer, sir—­beer; fust prize for top score o’ beer drunk down to the ‘Man-o’-War’ sence fust o’ November last.  He’s a wunner for beer, es Maaster Sam,” pursued the relentless urchin, who by this time had forgotten his tears.  “Hunderd an’ nine gallons, sir, an’ Bill Odgers so jallous as fire—­says he’d ha’ won et same as he did last time, on’y Maaster Sam’s got the longer purse—­offered to fight ‘un, an’ the wuss man to pay for both nex’ time.”

Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys turned aside to conceal a smile.  Lawyer Pellow rubbed his chin.  The Admiral stamped.

“Take it away!”

“Where be I to take it to, plaise, sir?”

“Take it away—­anywhere; take it to the devil!”

But worse remained for the little man.  During this conversation there had come unperceived up the road a gentleman of mild appearance, dressed in black, and carrying under his arm a large parcel wrapped about with whitey-brown paper.

The new-comer, who was indeed our friend Mr. Fogo, now advanced towards the Admiral with a bow.

“Admiral Buzza, I believe?”

The Admiral turned and faced the speaker; his jaw fell like a signal flag; but he drew himself up with fine self-repression.

“Sir, I am Admiral Buzza.”

“I have come,” said Mr. Fogo, quietly pulling the pins out of his parcel, “to restore what I believe is your property (Will somebody oblige me by holding this pin?  Thank you), and at the same time to apologise for the circumstances under which it came into my hands.  (Dear me, what a number of pins, to be sure!) I have done what lay in my power with a clothes-brush and emery-powder to restore it to its pristine brilliance.  The treatment (That is the last, I think) has not, I am bound to admit, answered my expectations; its result, however, is as you see.”

Here Mr. Fogo withdrew the wrapper and with a pleasant smile held out—­a cocked hat.

The Admiral, purple with fury, bounced back like a shot on a red-hot shovel; stared; tried to speak, but could not; gulped; tried again; and finally, shaking his fist in Mr. Fogo’s face, flung into the house and slammed the front door.

The cause of this transport turned a pair of bewildered spectacles on the others, and found them convulsed with unseemly mirth.  He singled out the Honourable Frederic, and addressed himself to that gentleman.

“I have not the pleasure to be acquainted with you, sir; but if you can supply me with any reason for this display of temper, believe me—­”

“My name is Goodwyn-Sandys, sir, at your—­”

“What!”

Mr. Fogo dropped the cocked hat and sat down suddenly among the cakes.

“Are you,” he gasped—­“are you Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys—­the Honourable Frederic Augustus Hythe Good—?  Heavens!”

“No, sir,” said the Honourable Frederic, who had grown a thought pale.  “Good wyn, sir—­Goodwyn-Sandys.  What then?”