"His Stradivarius," answered the latter, and as that obviously conveyed no meaning, "his violin."
"Oh! His fiddle! Why could n't he say so?—Jim!"
"Ay, ay, sir!"
"Another pewter."
"Ay, ay, sir." Jim hobbled off into the Admiral's house and Sir Peter and Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn stood, facing each other, each grasping his pewter of foaming ale.
"Well!" cried Sir Peter, "The King!"
But Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn was not to be put off with so curt a toast. Planting his feet firmly together, and throwing his chest out, he boomed in a formal and stately manner, "His Most Gracious Majesty, King George the Third, God bless him!"
The Admiral eyed him curiously for a moment, and seemed about to speak, but thought better of it; and for an appreciable time the faces of both gentlemen were hidden. When they came to light again it was with a great sigh of satisfaction, and they both settled down on the bench for quiet enjoyment.
"Now!" cried Sir Peter, "a pipe of tobacco with you, Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn?"
"Delighted!"