"I don't care, bring it!"
The mention of the arrivals sent the Admiral up to a white heat again.
"But, my—"
"Bring it!"
It was brought. The Admiral had two helpings, and then a glass of grog.
"Go."
Mrs. Buzza withdrew. Left to himself, the Admiral tossed, and turned, and fumed, and swore, lay still for a while, and then repeated the process backwards. After a time the bed-clothes began to prick him, and the heat to become a positive torture. He leapt out, and tore at the bell-rope, until it came away in his hand—just as his wife reappeared.
"Will you kindly inform me what the devil's wrong with this bed? Who made it?"
"Selina, dear."
"Then will you kindly give Selina a month's notice on the spot? Do you hear? On the spot—What's that?"