Bad wine, which is responsible for the fate of half the dismal bodies hanging from trees, weltering by rocks, grovelling and bleaching round the bedabbled mouth of the poet’s Cave of Despair, had rendered Captain Baskelett’s temper extremely irascible; so when he caught sight of Dr. Shrapnel walling in his garden, and perceived him of a giant’s height, his eyes fastened on the writer of the abominable letter with an exultation peculiar to men having a devil inside them that kicks to be out. The sun was low, blazing among the thicker branches of the pollard forest trees, and through sprays of hawthorn. Dr. Shrapnel stopped, facing the visible master of men, at the end of his walk before he turned his back to continue the exercise and some discourse he was holding aloud either to the heavens or bands of invisible men. “Ahem, Dr. Shrapnel!” He was accosted twice, the second time imperiously. He saw two gentlemen outside the garden-hedge. “I spoke, sir,” said Captain Baskelett. “I hear you now, sir,” said the doctor, walking in a parallel line with them. “I desired to know, sir, if you are Dr. Shrapnel?” “I am.” They arrived at the garden-gate. “You have a charming garden, Dr. Shrapnel,” said Lord Palmet, very affably and loudly, with a steady observation of the cottage windows. Dr. Shrapnel flung the gate open. Lord Palmet raised his hat and entered, crying loudly, “A very charming garden, upon my word!” Captain Baskelett followed him, bowing stiffly. “I am,” he said, “Captain Beauchamp’s cousin. I am Captain Baskelett, one of the Members for the borough.” The doctor said, “Ah.” “I wish to see Captain Beauchamp, sir. He is absent?” “I shall have him here shortly, sir.” “Oh, you will have him!” Cecil paused. “Admirable roses!” exclaimed Lord Palmet. “You _have_ him, I think,” said Cecil, “if what we hear is correct. I wish to know, sir, whether the case you are conducting against his uncle is one you have communicated to Captain Beauchamp. I repeat, I am here to inquire if he is privy to it. You may hold family ties in contempt—Now, sir! I request you abstain from provocations with me.” Dr. Shrapnel had raised his head, with something of the rush of a rocket, from the stooping posture to listen, and his frown of non-intelligence might be interpreted as the coming on of the fury Radicals are prone to, by a gentleman who believed in their constant disposition to explode.