Dinner passed off extremely well. The admiral was in high spirits; and as it was a bachelor's party, he earned his wine. The next morning we met at breakfast. When that was over, the master of the house retired to his office, or pretended to do so. I was going out to walk, but Ned said I had better stay a few minutes; he had something to say to me; in fact, he had prepared a treat without my knowing it. "How did you sleep last night, Sir Hurricane?" said the artful Ned. "Why, pretty well; considering," said the admiral, "I was not tormented by that old tom cat. D----n me, Sir, that fellow was like the Grand Signior, and he kept his seraglio in the garret, over my bed-room, instead of being at his post in the kitchen, killing the rats that are running about like coach-horses." "Sir Hurricane," said I, "it's always unlucky to sailors, if they meddle with cats. You will have a gale of wind, in some shape or another, before long." These words were hardly uttered, when, as if by preconcerted arrangement, the door opened, and in sailed Mrs Jellybag, the housekeeper, an elderly woman, somewhere in the latitude of fifty-five or sixty years. With a low courtesy and contemptuous toss of her head, she addressed Sir Hurricane Humbug. "Pray, Sir Hurricane, what have you been doing to my cat?" The admiral, who prided himself in putting any one who applied to him on what he called the wrong scent, endeavoured to play off Mrs Jellybag in the same manner. "What have I done to your cat, my dear Mrs Jellybag? Why, my dear Madam" (said he, assuming an air of surprise), "what _should_ I do to your cat?" "You _should_ have left him alone, Mr Admiral; that cat was my property; if my master permits you to ill-treat the poultry, that's his concern; but that cat was mine, Sir Hurricane--mine, every inch of him. The animal has been ill-treated, and sits moping in the corner of the fireplace, as if he was dying; he'll never be the cat he was again." "I don't think he ever will, my dear Mrs Housekeeper," answered the admiral, drily. The lady's wrath now began to kindle. The admiral's cool replies were like water sprinkled upon a strong flame, increasing its force, instead of checking it. "Don't dear _me_, Sir Hurricane. I am not one of _your dears_--_your dears_ are all in Dutchtown--more shame for you, an old man like you." "Old man!" cried Sir Hurricane, losing his placidity a little. "Yes, old man; look at your hair--as grey as a goose's." "Why, as for my hair, that proves nothing, Mrs Jellybag, for though there may be snow on the mountains, there is still heat in the valleys. What d'ye think of my metaphor?"