“But he laughed in my face, Harry?”
“I was laughing at myself, uncle.”
“At yourself, sir?”
“Yes, I was thinking what a popinjay I should look in a cocked hat.”
“Well, really,” said the admiral, “I am beginning to be glad, Harry, that I never married and had a son. I used to be envious about this boy, and wanted a share in him. But a boy who can laugh at a part of his Majesty’s uniform—well! Why, you young whipper-snapper, did I ever look a—a—a popinjay in my cocked hat?”
“Well, you used to look very rum, uncle.”
“Harry, my dear boy,” said the admiral, fiercely; “we are old men, and this young dog represents us. May I take him into the library, and give him a good caning?”
“No, Tom, certainly not.”
“No, of course not, Harry; I beg your pardon. Now, sir—pass that port—and—a—don’t fill your own glass. Port like that, sir, is only fit for gentlemen. And you—you want to be a doctor, eh?”
“Yes, uncle,” said the boy, pushing the decanter along the table.