"So ’s mine," cried the Admiral, with a guffaw; "but I see straight, what?" It was a matter of principle with Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn never to take the slightest notice of the Admiral’s jokes. Sir Peter might be the autocrat of the Walk, although Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn had his own views even on that point; but he himself was the acknowledged wit and man of fashion, and from that position nothing should shake him. He had spied Miss Ruth Pennymint working in her open bow-window, and Mrs. Poskett busy with her flowers. Assuming his grandest manner, he said warningly: "Should we not resume our habiliments? The fair are observing us." "Gobblessmysoul!" cried Sir Peter, shocked at being discovered in undress. They hastily helped each other into their coats, which were lying on the bench under the elm. Meanwhile, Jim had brought out a tray with two pewters, two long clay pipes, a jar of tobacco and a lighted candle, and had placed it on the bench. From the open upstair window of the Pennymint’s house came the strains of a violin: one passage, played over and over again, with varying degrees of success. "Wish Mr. Pringle would stop his infernal scraping," growled the Admiral. Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn shrugged his shoulders with condescending pity. "Poor fellow! What a way of earning his living!" Sir Peter turned to the quarter from which the music came, and, making a speaking-trumpet of his hands, roared, "Mr. Pringle! Mr. Pringle, ahoy!" A hideous wrong note, as if the player had been scared out of his wits, was the answer, and Basil Pringle appeared at the window. "I beg your pardon, Admiral; I was engrossed." "Join us under the elm, what?" "With pleasure. I ’ll just put away my Strad." As Basil retired Sir Peter turned to Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn. "His what?" "His Stradivarius," answered the latter, and as that obviously conveyed no meaning, "his violin." "Oh! His fiddle! Why could n’t he say so?—Jim!" "Ay, ay, sir!" "Another pewter." "Ay, ay, sir." Jim hobbled off into the Admiral’s house and Sir Peter and Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn stood, facing each other, each grasping his pewter of foaming ale. "Well!" cried Sir Peter, "The King!" But Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn was not to be put off with so curt a toast. Planting his feet firmly together, and throwing his chest out, he boomed in a formal and stately manner, "His Most Gracious Majesty, King George the Third, God bless him!" The Admiral eyed him curiously for a moment, and seemed about to speak, but thought better of it; and for an appreciable time the faces of both gentlemen were hidden. When they came to light again it was with a great sigh of satisfaction, and they both settled down on the bench for quiet enjoyment. "Now!" cried Sir Peter, "a pipe of tobacco with you, Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn?" "Delighted!" "St. Vincent. Prime stuff: and—in your ear—smuggled!" "No!—reely?" The two men leant over the candle and lighted their pipes with artistic care.