"I am no more a _metafore_ than yourself, Sir Hurricane; but I'll tell you what, you are a _cock-and-hen_ admiral, a dog-in-the-manger barrownight, who was jealous of my poor tom-cat, because--I won't say what. Yes, Sir Hurricane, all hours of the day you are leering at every young woman that passes out of our windows--and an old man too--you ought to be ashamed of yourself; and then you go to church of a Sunday, and cry, `Good Lord, deliver us.'" The housekeeper now advanced so close to the admiral that her nose nearly touched his, her arms akimbo, and every preparation for boarding. The admiral, fearing she might not confine herself to vocality, but begin to beat time with her fists, thought it right to take up a position; he therefore very dexterously took two steps in the rear and mounted on a sofa; his left was defended by an upright piano, his right by the breakfast table with all the tea-things on it; his rear was against the wall, and his front depended on himself in person. From this commanding eminence he now looked down on the housekeeper, whose nose could reach no higher than the seals of her adversary's watch; and in proportion as the baronet felt his security, so rose his choler. Having been for many years proctor at the great universities of Point-street and Blue-town, as well as member of Barbican and North Corner, he was perfectly qualified, in point of classical dialect, to maintain the honour of his profession. Nor was the lady by any means deficient. Although she had not taken her degree, her tongue from constant use had acquired a fluency which nature only concedes to practice. It will not be expected, nor would it be proper, that I should repeat all that passed in this concluding scene, in which the housekeeper gave us good reason to suppose that she was not quite so ignorant of the nature of the transaction as she would have had us believe. The battle having raged for half an hour with great fury, both parties desisted, for want of breath, and consequently of ammunition. This produced a gradual cessation of firing, and by degrees the ships separated--the admiral, like Lord Howe on the 1st of June, preserving his position, though very much mauled; and the housekeeper, like the _Montague, running down_ to join her associates. A few random shots were exchanged as they parted, and at every second or third step on the stairs, Mrs Margaret brought to, and fired, until both were quite out of range; a distant rumbling noise was heard, and the admiral concluded, by muttering that she might go --- somewhere, but the word died between his teeth. "There, admiral," said I, "did not I tell you that you would have a squall?" "Squall! yes--damn my blood," wiping his face; "how the spray flew from the old beldame! She's fairly wetted my trousers, by God! Who'd ever thought that such a purring old bitch could have shown such a set of claws! War to the knife! By heavens, I'll make her remember this."