"I happened to be sitting up late, my lord, over the _Aeolus_
papers," said Mr. Secretary Tylney.
"Ha?" Then, to the valet, "The dressing-gown there! Don't fumble!
. . . So this is Captain--"
"Lieutenant, sir: Lapenotiere, commanding the _Pickle_ schooner."
The Lieutenant saluted.
"From the Fleet, my lord--off Cadiz; or rather, off Cape Trafalgaro."
He drew the sealed dispatch from an inner breast-pocket and handed it
to the First Lord.
"Here, step into the Board Room. . . . Where the devil are my
spectacles?" he demanded of the valet, who had sprung forward to hold
open the door.
Evidently the Board Room had been but a few hours ago the scene of a
large dinner-party. Glasses, dessert-plates, dishes of fruit,
decanters empty and half empty, cumbered the great mahogany table
as dead and wounded, guns and tumbrils, might a battlefield.
Chairs stood askew; crumpled napkins lay as they had been dropped or
tossed, some on the floor, others across the table between the
dishes.
"Looks cosy, eh?" commented the First Lord. "Maggs, set a screen
around the fire, and look about for a decanter and some clean
glasses.
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