“Oh, no,” said Tuckerman, and added, “Your island looked so inviting that we made bold to come ashore.”
“I’m glad you’re not from Barmouth,” said the gentleman. “I have no stomach for those folks, rebels against His Britannic Majesty’s lawful government. To visitors such as you my island and my house are always open. Will you come in and refresh yourselves?”
“You are very good, Sir Peter,” said Tuckerman, with a smile.
“Why do you call me ‘Sir Peter’?”
“I understood that was your title.”
The gentleman frowned. “I believe that some of the rebels call me that, because of my loyalty to the King of England. However, it is an honorable title. I have no objection. Yes,” he added, “you may call me Sir Peter. I like the sound.”
“Well then, Sir Peter,” said Tuckerman, “I think we’ll accept your invitation with the greatest pleasure.”
The gentleman on the step stood aside, and the four marched into the house. Sir Peter indicated a room on the left. They went into the large drawing-room, and Ben, casting a hasty glance at the secretary, saw that the paper he had placed on the lid was still there.
“Be seated,” said Sir Peter. He stood for a moment near the portrait on the wall, and the campers saw how much his face and figure and the cut of his clothes resembled those of the man in the picture. He caught their eyes comparing him with the portrait. “Yes, my picture,” he said. “It’s considered a rather fair likeness.” And he added deprecatingly, “Of course no one can ever judge a likeness of himself.”
He pulled a bell-rope that hung by the big fireplace. “I can offer you a glass of negus,” he continued. “Something unusual, that I get from the Barbadoes.”