"Bless my soul!" repeated the Admiral, "but I never ordered this."
Each member of the group in turn advanced, inspected the cake, sniffed the savour, pronounced it excellent, and looked from the Admiral to the boy for explanation.
"Mrs. Dymond down to the 'Man-'o-War' sent et, sir, wi' her compliments to Maaster Sam, an' hopin' as he'll find et plum i' the bakin' as it leaves her at present, an' the currants all a-picked careful, knowin' as he'd a sweet tooth."
"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?"