“The worst possible for the Derby, sir. But this is a truth that you will never be able to believe until you see it demonstrated. And you will probably see it done to-day.” As they talked, the waiter came in to lay the cloth for breakfast. Watching his opportunity, he presently came to General Lyon, and said, in a low, respectful voice: “Beg pardon, sir, but would you like to have a luncheon put up to take with you?” “Eh? Yes, certainly,” replied the General, at the same time turning towards his young visitors a comically appealing look, as much as to say: “You see even this waiter knows me to be a greenhorn.” “What would you please order, sir?” inquired John. “Eh?—oh, anything at all! something nice and tidy.” “Pigeon-pie, sir, if you please?” “Spencer, is pigeon-pie the regular thing?” said the General, winking at his friend. “I believe it is _one_ of the regular things. Derby Day without pigeon-pie would be—an incomplete arrangement.” “Well, Spencer, my dear boy, as you are posted, please receive my carte blanche to order all the ‘regular things,’ and everything else that is comfortable.” Young Spencer nodded and laughed; took from the General’s hand a card and a pencil, and made out a liberal list which he handed to the waiter, saying: “See that all these articles are put into clean hampers, and stowed away in the boxes of the General’s barouche.” The man left the room with the list, and returned with the breakfast tray. And the family party and their visitors sat down to the table. Anna presided. “Where is my godson?” inquired the General, discontented at the absence of his favorite. “He had his breakfast in my room, an hour ago, so that he might be got ready to go with us,” said Drusilla. “Ah! yes, well, I suppose under the circumstances it was as well,” admitted the General. Before they had done breakfast, however, Master Lenny was led in by his nurse. He was resplendent in holiday attire and in the anticipation of some unknown glory that had been promised him, and for which he saw great preparations going forward, and which he called in his baby babble “doin’ Dubby.” “Doin’ Dubby, untle dranpa! Lenny doin’ Dubby, hee hos wun,” he said, running up to his godfather. “Lenny is going to the Derby to see the horses run, is he? But Lenny will be the winning horse, I’ll bet,” said the General, taking the little fellow up on his knee. “Gentlemen,” he added, turning to his young visitors, “let me introduce you to Master Leonard Lyon, the latest representative of old Leonard Lyon, who——” “‘Came over with the Conqueror,’” suggested Mr. Tredegar. “Who lived here long before the Conqueror was born,” concluded the General, quietly. “Leonard, my boy, bow to the gentlemen, and ask them how they do, and say that you hope they are well.” “Hope.—_Do Dubby_,” said Lenny, who could not connect his sentences very well as yet, holding out his chubby hand to Mr. Spencer, who was nearest.