“That’s the next best,” he said, bluntly. “Well, then, I’ll make it my affair.” “I can’t keep my fingers off a gun or a rope for long, sir, that’s God’s truth.” “The smell of the tar sticks, lads? Mr. Pepys and the Duke, if necessary, shall be my men. I would rather see fellows of mine in the best ship that carries the King’s flag than rolling in some dirty ketch between Dover and Dunkirk.” John Gore called for a tankard of ale, and they pledged healths together in the tavern of “The Eight Bells.” Leaving them a purse of guineas as largesse, he returned to his boat, with Jasper and his mates acting as a kind of state guard to the water-side. “If God won’t have a man, the devil will! That’s an old proverb, captain, and the King’s a better master than Old Nick.” With some such philosophy Jasper looked lovingly on John Gore as he stood on the water-steps and took his leave. Far down the stream the masts of Old Man Hollis’s ship seemed to beckon them unavailingly toward the brightness of Spanish seas. At the Admiralty offices a plump, buxom, bustling gentleman received John Gore with great good-will. Something of a dandy, with protuberant eyes that appeared to have grown weak with straining at everything that was to be seen, Mr. Pepys bundled himself gladly from the multifarious responsibilities of office, and let loose all his heartiness in the service of a friend. It was impossible to be jovial or to enjoy a gossip where so many detestable quills were scratching and scolding over parchment and paper. The dinner-table was the secretary’s inspiration. Mrs. Pepys would be infinitely contented at the thought of an old friend dining off the new silver plate. John Gore and the ubiquitous, but yet lovable, busybody departed dinnerward arm in arm. At home the fair St. Michel appeared triste and a little out of temper. Her husband’s hospitality was often inconsistently impulsive. There are moments, even in the best households, when the joints are scraggy, and the puddings like country cousins, homely and out of fashion. Mr. Pepys kissed his wife with excellent unction, let fall a hint that he had seen a new gown at the New Exchange, and compelled the domestic sun to shine by the sheer vitality of his good-humor. Jack Gore praised his sherry, and frankly confessed that he had a favor to ask. Mr. Pepys chuckled. So many people always appeared to be in like case. His sherry was the finest sherry in the three kingdoms on such occasions. Some of these suppliants—well, that was a purely private affair! And he gave a confidential and deliberate wink that suggested that he was popular. “Most revered Jack,” quoth he, “you throw a request in a man’s face like a twenty-pound shot into a Dutchman’s hull. There is just the polite spark at the touch-hole to give one warning, your urbanity concerning the sherry. None the less, I like it. Candor makes me feel quite fat.” “You will get these fellows of mine well berthed?”