The man in red ascended the steps, while the servant’s face receded inch by inch, so that he resembled a discreet dog backing sulkily into his kennel. He was about to clap the door to, when the captain pushed Sparkin bodily into the breach. “Richards, man, have you forgotten me?” Sparkin’s head had taken the fellow well in the stomach, and the shock may have accounted for the man’s vacant and astonished face. “Is my lord in? Brisk up, man, and don’t judge the whole world by its coat.” “The Lord forgive me, sir!” “Possibly He will, Richards.” “I didn’t know you, Mr. John, sir, you’re so brown—and—” “Shabby, Richards; say it, and have done. Is my lord in town?” “Oh yes, sir. Won’t you come in and dine? There is a good joint of roast, Mr. John, sir, and a barrel of oysters. My lord is at Lady Purcell’s in Pall Mall.” “Lady Anne Purcell’s?” “Yes, Mr. John.” He turned and walked down the steps, the footman marvelling at his effrontery in wearing such dastardly clothes. “Take the boy in, Richards.” Richards and Master Sparkin regarded each other suspiciously. “Give him a wash, and a new pair of breeches, if you can find a pair to fit.” “Yes, Mr. John; and your baggage, sir?” “Lies somewhere in Barbary, Richards, so you need not trouble your head about that.” The whole episode so piqued the footman that he proceeded to lead the boy in the direction of the kitchen quarters by the ear. Whereat, Sparkin, who had already gauged the gentleman’s tonnage, fetched him a valiant kick upon the shin, and broke loose with a grin of whole-hearted scorn. “You keep your hands to yourself, Tom Richards.” The footman made a grab at the boy, but Sparkin was on the alert. “Touch me, and I’ll dig my dirk into you.” Mr. Richards reverted to that easier and safer weapon—the tongue. “Didn’t Mr. John tell me to wash you, you little bundle of rags?” Sparkin’s hand went to his belt. “You touch me, and I’ll let your blood for you, Tom Richards. The Lord forgive me, sir”—and he imitated the man’s voice—“you’d be learning something if you went to sea with Captain Gore.” “Oh, I should, should I!” “The devil you would.” “And you’d be teaching me, perhaps!” said the man in livery, with a sententious sniff. “’Twouldn’t be my business. They’d send you to the cook’s galley to clean pots.” While Sparkin was instilling obfuscated respect and caution into Tom Richards, Captain John Gore made his way to Lady Purcell’s house. The stare he met there was no more flattering than that which his father’s servant had given him. A three days’ beard, no wig, a soiled coat, and a moulting beaver were not calculated to conciliate menials. “My Lord Gore is here?” “What may your business be?” He walked in over the servant’s toes. “Tell my lord that Captain Gore is below.” “Captain Gore, sir?” The gentleman merely reiterated the order with a straight stare. “Would you be pleased, sir, to walk into the garden.”