Deer-antlers bristled in various corners, and five or six huge cages, filled with owls, parrots, hawks, and a dozen other strange birds, hung from the ceiling, while the model of a ship, some three feet long, with all her sails set, her cargo and crew most probably under the hatches—for none were visible on deck—and apparently all ready for sea, stood on the mantel-piece, right under the painting.
A huge, wide fireplace, in which, despite the warmth of the evening, a bright fire was burning, occupied one corner of the apartment, and close beside this sat Admiral Havenful, in his elbow-chair, still staring at his niece.
The admiral was a man of fifty or so, short, stout, plethoric, with a rubicund face, a jolly sailor’s swagger, and a simple, good-natured look, naturally, that made every heart warm toward him. Very rich, very generous, and very easily “taken in,” he was the guardian-angel of all the poor in the neighborhood. The admiral had never married, and had only quitted the service a few years before to settle down and end his days in the pride of his heart, his huge, white, eye-blinding “White Squall.” A fondness for whisky-punch, children, and nautical phrases, were the most noticeable traits in the old man’s character. His niece, Pet Lawless, had never ceased to astonish him, from the first moment he saw her, and now he sat hopelessly gazing at her, and trying to make out what could have brought her there at that hour of the night, looking so pale and excited.
Pet, with her dark eyes fixed on the floor, was uneasily wondering whether she had killed the man she had shot at, and shuddering to think what a dreadful thing it was to shed blood, even in self-defense.
“Oh, I hope—I do hope I haven’t killed him!” she exclaimed at last, involuntarily, aloud.
“Killed who? Firefly?” inquired the astounded admiral.
“Uncle Harry,” said Pet, looking abruptly up, “I’ve gone and killed a man!”
This startling announcement so completely overwhelmed the worthy admiral, that he could only give vent to his feelings by a stifled “Stand from under!”
“Yes, I just have; and I expect they’ll hang me for it, now. Ranty said I was to be hung, but who would think he could really tell fortunes?”
“Killed a man! St. Judas Iscariot!” ejaculated the dismayed admiral. “When, Flibbertigibbet?”