"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.
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