The old sailor was now heard, in tones that might have roused a main-deck, calling to the servants to bring down all his baggage to the pavilion, to heat the bath, and send him some sherry and a sandwich.
“I see you 're getting ready for me, Raikes,” said he, as the somewhat nervous functionary appeared at the door.
“Well, indeed, Commodore Graham, these rooms are just taken.”
“Taken! and by whom? Don't you know, and have n't you explained, that they are always mine?”
“We thought up to this morning, Commodore, that you were not coming.”
“Who are 'we,'—you and the housemaids, eh? Tell me who are 'we,' sir?”
“My mistress was greatly distressed, sir, at George's mistake, and she sent him back late last night.”
“Don't bother me about that. Who's here,—who has got my quarters, and where is he? I suppose it's a man.”
“It's a Mr. Norman Maitland.”
“By George, I'd have sworn it!” cried the Commodore, getting purple with passion. “I knew it before you spoke. Go in and say that Commodore Graham would wish to speak with him.”