“Yes, father.”
“Then we’ll go up by to-night’s coach and see Captain Dashleigh to-morrow. What do you say?”
“I’m ready, father. Will uncle come too?”
“Uncle Tom come too, you young humbug! how can I?” cried the admiral. “No, I’m on sick leave, till my figure-head’s perfect, so I shall have to stop here and sip the port.”
Chapter Thirteen.
A supercilious-looking waiter—that is to say, a waiter who has had a good season and saved a little money—was standing at the door of the oldest hotel in Covent Garden, when a clumsy coach was driven up to the door.
The coach was so old and shabby, and drawn by two such wretched beasts, that the supercilious waiter could not see it; and after looking to his right and his left he turned to go in.
“Here, hi!” came from the coach; but the waiter paid no heed.