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Sir William now rose from the table and went to an armchair at the open window, upon the seat or ledge of which stood a jar of tobacco, some clay pipes, and a little machine for firing a match dipped in brimstone, a very ingenious contrivance as old as the days of the second Charles: namely, a little pistol-shaped fire-maker whose trigger struck a full and brilliant spark from the flint and kindled the tinder. He filled his pipe and lighted it, and sat in conversation with his son, in whom the particular humour or mood would have been extremely hard to settle by the most sagacious of critical observers. He was speedy in answering his father, and his language did not show much abstraction of mind; but even the Admiral noticed that there was an undercurrent of thought in his son which was pursuing a very different course from the stream as it appeared on the surface. "I am his father, my lord," replied Sir William with a low bow, of which the gravity that coloured it was very intelligible to Captain Acton and Lucy. "I should like," said the Admiral, "to have met Nelson. In all my going a-fishing I never fell in his way.".

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Stanhope sank back on his box, his relaxed nerves throbbing and his lips forming the words: "Thank God!" "No, I thank you, sir. I am to dine to-day with Mr Perry. I have long promised to eat a cut of cold meat with him. His cider is the best I know. His cider alone makes him worth dining with." "Good!" exulted Stanhope. "Three down, Billy!" "Faith an' ain't I alone enough to suit ye?" laughed Harry. "Would ye have me put the cat out, thin? Now, phwat is ut?".