Sir Harry Keppel was famous throughout the Service when I was appointed his flag-lieutenant. One of my first recollections of that office concerned an old-fashioned "Eighteen-hundred-and-war-time," peppery, strict-service captain, who, having just come home from the West Coast of Africa, asked to see the commander-in-chief. It happened that Sir Harry and myself were on the point of going out hunting when the old captain called, and the admiral was attired in hunting kit. "Tell him I'll see him to-morrow," said Sir Harry. But that wouldn't do at all, nor would any other excuse serve. "I insist on seeing the admiral," said the captain. "I have just come home and it is my duty to see him at once." "Bring him in, then," said Sir Harry impatiently, "Now, sir," said he, "my flag-lieutenant informed you that I was engaged. Why couldn't you see the secretary?" "The secretary, sir? The secretary!" says the old captain wrathfully staring at Sir Harry's informal attire. "Indeed I am told, sir, that the secretary _is_ the Commander-in-chief here. That's what they say, sir--that's what they say!" "Do they?" returned Sir Harry placidly. "And a d----d good commander-in-chief too!" says he. When, in later years, I became commander-in-chief, I made it a rule that all admirals and captains should have direct access to myself, no matter how trifling the occasion. In those days, there was a turnpike-gate outside the town. I was driving a brother officer home late one night, after dining at a house some distance away and when we came to the toll-gate, the keeper was in bed, and all my knocking and shouting failed to wake him up. So I {114} proceeded to heave a large stone through his window. That fetched him; and down he came, grumbling and swearing. I thrust a sovereign--the only coin I had--into his hand to pay for his broken window and the toll. It was bad tactics, for he promptly retreated into his house (with my sovereign) leaving us still on the wrong side of the gate. There was nothing for it but to break the rest of his windows, but still he wouldn't come out. Evidently a surly fellow, unfit to take charge of turnpike gates, an office demanding tact and courtesy; and we thought it well to remove his temptation. So my companion and I wrenched the gate from its hinges and lashed it to the cart, vertically, so that it projected over our heads like a kind of ornamental roof, its weight nearly lifting the mare between the shafts off her legs and making her kick like blazes. Then we drove into Plymouth, gate and all. The gate was reduced to firewood before sunrise. Next day, the town was placarded with vain offers of reward for information concerning "some evil-disposed person or persons unknown who," etc.