"Damn the wig!" Lord Barham snatched it and attempted to stick it on top of his night-cap, damned the night-cap, and, plucking it off, flung it to the man.
"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."