“Strake, you scoundrel! is it you?” panted the captain.
Barney executed a curious manoeuvre, half bound, half roll, off his master, and brought up close to one of the larder shelves, while one of the other men left the admiral and ran out, to return with a light.
The scene was strange. Barney was standing supporting himself against the larder shelf, with his elbow on the cold sirloin of beef; the footman, in his shirt and breeches, was in a corner; and Captain Belton and his brother, with their clothes half torn-off their backs, were seated on the bare floor, staring angrily at their assailants; while Broughton, the butler, was in the doorway, with the candle he had fetched held high above his head.
“My last tooth gone,” roared the admiral. “You scoundrels, you shall pay for this.”
“Strake, you rascal!” cried the captain. “Broughton, is this some plot to rob me?”
The men stared aghast, as the captain struggled up.
“Speak, you ruffians! You, John!” roared the captain, as he got his breath again, and stood trembling with passion as he glared at the footman.
“Beg pardon, sir,” stammered the frightened servitor.
“No, don’t stop for that, sir,” cried his master; “tell me what the dickens this means.”
“Please, sir, I heard noises down-stairs, and I thought it was after the plate; so I told Broughton, sir, and he sent me after the gardener, sir.”