"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.
"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.