“The messenger come, sir!”
“Who is he?” shouted a very harsh voice.
“First for Madrid, sir,” said the youth, examining a slip of paper he had just taken from his pocket.
“His name?” shouted out the other again.
“Poynder, sir.”
“I beg your pardon,” suggested Tony, mildly. “I'm Butler, not Poynder.”
“Who's talking out there,—what's that uproar?” screamed the voice, very angrily.
“He says he 's not for Madrid, sir. It's a mistake,” cried the youth.
“No; you misunderstand me,” whispered Tony. “I only said I was not Poynder.”
“He says he 's in Poynder's place.”