"
"Sam! Do you mean to tell me that Sam--that my son--ordered _this?_
Upon my word, of all--"
"Didn' azackly order et, sir. Won et fair an' square. Bill Odgers
comed nex' wi' seven-an'-ninety gallon. But Master Sam topped the
lot by a dozen gallon aisy."
"Gallons! What the devil is the boy talking bout?"
"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.
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