“Come along then, Uncle!” cried the boy. “Hurrah for the admiral!”
“Confound the admiral!” returned Solomon Gills. “You mean the Lord Mayor.”
“No I don’t!” cried the boy. “Hurrah for the admiral! Hurrah for the admiral! For-ward!”
At this word of command, the Welsh wig and its wearer were borne without resistance into the back parlour, as at the head of a boarding party of five hundred men; and Uncle Sol and his nephew were speedily engaged on a fried sole with a prospect of steak to follow.
“The Lord Mayor, Wally,” said Solomon, “for ever! No more admirals. The Lord Mayor’s your admiral.”
“Oh, is he though!” said the boy, shaking his head. “Why, the Sword Bearer’s better than him. He draws his sword sometimes.”
“And a pretty figure he cuts with it for his pains,” returned the Uncle. “Listen to me, Wally, listen to me. Look on the mantelshelf.”
“Why who has cocked my silver mug up there, on a nail?” exclaimed the boy.
“I have,” said his Uncle. “No more mugs now. We must begin to drink out of glasses today, Walter. We are men of business. We belong to the City. We started in life this morning.”
“Well, Uncle,” said the boy, “I’ll drink out of anything you like, so long as I can drink to you. Here’s to you, Uncle Sol, and Hurrah for the—”