The servants of the Walk were very busy this Saturday morning. Jane, Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn’s nurse, was explaining to Abigail, Mrs. Poskett’s little maid, that nothing should persuade her to continue wearing the Charity-School costume after she had risen to the dignity of domestic service. Jim was feverishly polishing the Admiral’s little brass cannon. That brass cannon was the apple of the Admiral’s remaining eye; and at the same time the plague of his life. On every state occasion, such as the King’s birthday, or the anniversary of the Battle of Copenhagen, he would, to the great terror of the Walk, have it out, plant it pointing truculently to the opposite side of the river and, standing well away from it, apply a match. This was always an agonised moment of suspense for the Walk. But invariably the gun refused to go off. The Admiral’s expletives, however, supplied an efficient substitute. I am sorry to say the failure to explode was always due to an act of treachery on Jim’s part. The Walk subscribed five shillings towards that ancient mariner’s liquid refreshment, and the ancient mariner withdrew the charge in the dead of night. To-day he was polishing the gun well in view of all the houses. The King’s birthday was approaching, and the Walk needed a gentle reminder that unless it wished to be stunned and to have all its windows broken, now was the time to start the usual collection. Nanette came out of Number Four, carrying a rug and a bamboo cane, evidently bent on beating the former on the lawn. Jane drew Jim’s attention to her. Then began a battle of tongues. Jim tried to explain that this was not allowed. If she wanted to beat the rug, she must do so in the back garden. Words, none of which either could understand, grew high; Abigail and Jane joined in, and the place became a veritable Babel of screaming voices and of wildly waving arms. Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn opened his window violently. "What’s all this?" he cried; and he was such an amazing apparition that the voices sank to sudden silence and the servants rushed, helter-skelter, into their respective houses. Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn was finishing his toilet. He was brushing his hair. It stood out on each side of his head like a sort of double mane, and his face looked exactly like the representations of a flaming sun on the cover of an almanac. He was carrying on a conversation with Selina, and both he and his wife were evidently in a bad humour.