“My Lord!” said a messenger, in a voice of almost tremulous terror, while he flung open both inner and outer door for the great man's approach. The person who entered with a quick, active step was an elderly man, white-whiskered and white-haired, but his figure well set up, and his hat rakishly placed a very little on one side; his features were acute, and betokened promptitude and decision, blended with a sort of jocular humor about the mouth, as though even State affairs did not entirely indispose a man to a jest. “Don't send that bag off to-night, Baynes, till I come down,” said he, hurriedly; “and if any telegrams arrive, send them over to the house. What's this policeman doing at the door?--who is refractory?” “This--young man”--he paused, for he had almost said “gentleman”--“has just threatened an old and respectable servant of the office with a personal chastisement, my Lord.” “Declared he 'd break every bone in his body,” chimed in Brand. “Whose body?” asked his Lordship. “Willis's, my Lord,--the hall-porter,--a man, if I mistake not, appointed by your Lordship.” “I said I 'd kick him,” said Tony, calmly. “Kick Willis?” said my Lord, with a forced gravity, which could not, however, suppress a laughing twinkle of his keen gray eyes,--“kick Willis?” “Yes, my Lord; he does not attempt to deny it.” “What's your name, sir,” asked my Lord. “Butler,” was the brief reply. “The son of--no, not son--but relative of Sir Omerod's?” asked his Lordship again. “His nephew.” “Why, Sir Harry Elphinstone has asked me for something for you. I don't see what I can do for you. It would be an admirable thing to have some one to kick the porters; but we have n't thought of such an appointment,--eh, Baynes? Willis, the very first; most impudent dog! We want a messenger for Bucharest, Brand, don't we?” “No, my Lord; you filled it this morning,--gave it to Mr. Beed.” “Cancel Beed, then, and appoint Butler.” “Mr. Beed has gone, my Lord,--started with the Vienna bag.” “Make Butler supernumerary.” “There are four already, my Lord.” “I don't care if there were forty, Mr. Brand! Go and pass your examination, young gentleman, and thank Sir Harry Elphinstone, for this nomination is at his request. I am only sorry you didn't kick Willis.” And with this parting speech he turned away, and hopped downstairs to his brougham, with the light step and jaunty air of a man of thirty. Scarcely was the door closed, when Baynes and Brand retired into a window recess, conversing in lowest whispers and with much head-shaking. To what a frightful condition the country must come--any country must come--when administered by men of such levity, who make a sport of its interests, and a practical joke of its patronage--was the theme over which they now mourned in common. “Are you going to make a minute of this appointment, Brand?” asked Baynes. “I declare I 'd not do it.”