e screams, had rushed to
the window and witnessed the last stages of the catastrophe, was out
in a minute. Tenderly raising her sobbing sister, she assisted her
back to the house, and attended to the bruises with a combination of
arnica, vinegar, and brown paper. On the other side of the wall the
Admiral lay for some time and bellowed for help, until his frightened
family bore him in, and attempted to put him to bed.

But mark the heroism of the truly great. In spite of his late
treatment at the hands of his fellow-citizens--treatment which still
rankled--here was no Coriolanus to depart in a huff to Antium.
The Admiral had a duty to perform, a service due to this ungrateful
Town, and on the subject of going to bed he was adamant.

"Cease, Emily. Your tears, your protestations are in vain.
Stop, I tell you! Get me my uniform."

Surely some desperate, some decisive step was contemplated when the
Admiral ordered out that gold-laced coat and cocked hat that once had
shone in the Blue Squadron of Her Majesty's Navy. What could this
stern magnificence portend?

The Admiral had made up his mind. He was going to interview Mrs.
Snell, the charwoman.

It was a pretty fancy, and one not without parallel in the history of
famous men, that inspired him at his crisis to assume his bravest
attire. There is to my mind a flavour in the conceit--a bravado
lifting the action above mere intrepidity into actual greatness.
Nor in this little Iliad are there many figures that I regard with
more affection than that of Admiral Buzza at his garden gate waiting
for Mrs. Snell.

When at length she issued from "The Bower" and came down the road,
the effect of the gold lace was rather striking. She dropped her
bundle and her lower jaw together.

"Lawks, sir! how you did frighten me, to be sure! I thought it was
the devil!"

This was hardly what the Admiral had expected. He beckoned with his
forefinger mysteriously. Mrs. Snell advanced as though not quite
sure that her first fright was unfounded.

"Mrs. Snell," inquired the Admiral, in a whisper, "what are they
like?" He pointed melodramatically towards "The Bower" as he asked
the question.

Again the unexpected happened. Mrs. Snell burst into loud and
hysterical sobbing.

"Don't 'ee, sir! don't 'ee! I can't abear it. Not a thing can you do
to please 'em, an' the Honorubble Frederic a-dammin' about the 'ouse
fit to make your flesh creep. An' that though he might 'ave