NGERING-UP THE ADMIRALTY

"Boss in?"

Mr. Blair started violently; he had not heard John Dene enter his room.

"Er--yes, Mr. Dene," he replied, "I'll tell him." He half rose; but
before he could complete the movement John Dene had opened the door
communicating with Sir Lyster's private room.

Mr. Blair sank back in his chair. He was a man who assimilated
innovation with difficulty. All his life he had been cradled in the
lap of "as it was in the beginning." He was a vade-mecum on procedure
and the courtesies of life, which made him extremely valuable to Sir
Lyster. He was a gentle zephyr, whereas John Dene was something
between a sudden draught and a cyclone.

Mr. Blair fixed his rather prominent blue eyes on the door that had
closed behind John Dene. He disliked colonials. They always said what
they meant, and went directly for what they wanted, all of which was in
opposition to his standard of good-breeding.

As he continued to gaze at the door, it suddenly opened and John Dene's
head appeared.

"Say," he cried, "if that yellow-headed girl comes, send her right in,"
and the door closed with a bang.

Inwardly Mr. Blair gasped; it was not customary for yellow-haired girls
to be sent in to see the First Lord.

"The difference between this country and Can'da," remarked John Dene,
as he planted upon Sir Lyster's table a large, shapeless-looking
parcel, from which he proceeded to remove the wrapping, "is that here
every one wants to know who your father was; but in Can'da they ask
what can you do. I got that pound of tea," he added inconsequently.

"The pound of tea!" repeated Sir Lyster uncomprehendingly, as he
watched John Dene endeavouring to extract a packet from his pocket with
one hand, and undo the string of the parcel with the other.

"Yes, for that yellow-headed girl. I ran into her in the corridor and
smashed her teapot yesterday. I promised I'd get her some more tea.
Here it is;" and John Dene laid the package on the First Lord's table.
"If she comes after I'm gone, you might give it to her. I told her to
run in here and fetch it. This is the pot," he added, still struggling
with the wrappings.

Presently he disinterred from a mass of paper wound round it in every
conceivable way, a large white, pink and gold teapot.

Sir Lyster gazed from the teapot, terrifying in the crudeness of its
shape and design, to John Dene and back again to the teapot.

"Like it?" asked John Dene, as he look