, or in and
out of any little port where sailors grew, that his own door had nearly
forgotten his shadow, and his dining-room table the reflection of his
face. For, in those days, to keep a good table implied that the table
must be good, as well as what was put upon it; and calico spread upon
turpentine was not yet considered the proper footing for the hospitable
and social glass.

"When shall Twemlow and I have a hobnob again?" the Admiral asked
himself many a time. "How the dear old fellow loves to see the image of
his glass upon the table, and the ruby of his port reflected! Heigho!
I am getting very stiff in the back, and never a decent bit of dinner
for'ard. And as for a glass of good wine--oh Lord! my timbers will be
broken up, before it comes to mend them. And when I come home for even
half an hour, there is all this small rubbish to attend to. I must
have Frank home, to take this stuff off my hands, or else keep what I
abominate, a private secretary."

Among the pile of letters that had lain unopened was one which he left
to the last, because he disliked both the look and the smell of it. A
dirty, ugly scrawl it was, bulged out with clumsy folding, and dabbed
with wax in the creases. With some dislike he tore it open; and the
dislike became loathing, as he read:

"Hon'd Sir. These foo lines comes from a umble but arty frend to
command. Rekwesting of your pardon sir, i have kep a hi same been father
of good dawters on the goings on of your fammeley. Miss Faith she is
a hangel sir but Miss Dolly I fere no better than she ort to be, and
wonderful fond of been noticed. I see her keeping company and carryin on
dreadful with a tall dark young man as meens no good and lives to Widow
Shankses. Too nites running when the days was short she been up to the
cornder of your grounds to meat he there ever so long. Only you hask her
if you don't believe me and wash her fase same time sir. Too other peple
besides me nose it. Excoose hon'd sir this trubble from your obejiant
servant

"FAX AND NO MISSTAKE."

The Admiral's healthy face turned blue with rage and contempt, and he
stamped with his heel, as if he had the writer under it. To write a
stabbing letter, and to dare to deal the stab, and yet fear to show the
hand that deals it, was at that time considered a low thing to do. Even
now there are people who so regard it, though a still better tool for a
blackguard--the anonymous post-card--is now superseding it.

All