"Miss Temple held a review? Well, I'll be boiled!"
"No," Browne was irritable, "our Lady, of course, reviewed the What-d'ye-call-um's ships—Brand's ships—eleven of them."
"You're dreaming, Browne."
"It's no dream," said Browne. "Our Lady has kept the crews alive in gaol; she's got the squadron together, reviewed them yesterday, and she's going to send them against the enemy's fleets. They've got some sort of vibrations for touching off explosives, but none of their captains ever heard of these vibrations, and Brand is the only man who knows the secret. That seems to trouble our Lady."
"Vibrations be damned," said Lancaster, hotly. "I know all about etheric ships. Wasn't I in the Mary Rose when we rammed the Gigantic? Brand's ships are rams, and they'll go through an electric battleship like a shell through a paper balloon. Eleven rams like that could wipe out all the electric fleets of Europe. Why with the fleets destroyed and the country impassable——"
Browne yelped with delight.
"Here," cried Lancaster, "Jack Branscombe, you old fool. I'll bet you every horse in my stables, bar Sharon and the Dun—against your spotted dog, our Lady wins the game!"
Branscombe had been listening at the stairhead, now he rolled over to Lancaster.
"I can't," he panted. "I can't bet against our Lady."
"That the League don't capture London—my horses against your beastly spotted cur."