He found Parkington and Brandon together, pacing back and forth on the esplanade. He delivered his message curtly, faced about, and tramped off. These men were not to his liking, and in his official capacity, as his Excellency's aide-de-camp, it did his small soul good to treat them with scant courtesy.
"Well, it has come!" said Parkington.
Brandon was looking after Herford, with a frown.
"That fellow," he observed, "needs to be taught some civility with a club—a walking stick is not stout enough to be effective."
"Never mind Herford," smiled Parkington. "Come and help his Excellency hold court, for my particular benefit."
Brandon was wearing his sword, and, now, he gave it a hitch forward, so that it lay close to his hand.
"You do not anticipate using it?" his friend asked.
"I do not know," said he, with an ominous shake of the head. "One can never tell how suddenly the occasion may arise. That is why I am never without it—it has saved my life, a score of times, in the last four years."
"We are not flying the Jolly Roger, now," Parkington commented.