“Furder up the river by two mile.”

“Could you row me up this afternoon to see them?”

Caleb Trotter rose, and drew the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Wi’ all the pleasure in life, sir, as Uncle Zachy said when he gi’ed his da’ter in marriage.”

In less than ten minutes Caleb had brought his boat round to the quay.  Mr. Fogo stepped in, and was presently seated in the stern and meditatively listening while Caleb rowed—­and talked—­“like a Trojan.”

Here we may leave them for a while and return to the Admiral, whom we left in the act of plunging furiously into his own house.  It was not the habit of that fiery little tar to hide his emotions from the wife of his bosom.

“Emily!” he bellowed, “Em-i-ly, I say!  Come down this instant.”

The three Misses Buzza at the parlour window knew the tone, and shuddered:  Mrs. Buzza, up-stairs, heard, trembled, and obeyed.

“Yes, darling.  What is it?”

“Fill the warming-pan at once.  I’m going to bed.”

“To bed, love!”

“Yes, to bed.  Don’t I speak plainly enough?  To bed, ma’am, to bed, and at once.”

“You are upset, dearest; be cool, I implore you.”

“Be cool!  Be coo’—­Don’t hector me, ma’am, but fetch that warming-pan at once.  I’ll teach you about being cool!  Sophy, pull off my boots.”

They obeyed.  The warming-pan was brought—­an enormous engine, big enough to hold the Admiral himself—­and the bed heated.  The Admiral undressed, and, himself a warming-pan of rage, plunged between the sheets.  It was a wonder the bed-clothes were not on fire.

“Pull down the blind, and bring me something to eat!”

“Yes, love.”

“And be quick about it.  Can’t you see I’m starving?”

It is true that the Admiral’s excitement had interfered with his breakfast that morning, but it was none the less difficult to read starvation upon his face.  Mrs. Buzza obeyed, however; and presently returned with the liver-wing of a fowl.

“You call that a dinner for a hungry man, I suppose!  Bring me some more!”

“My dear, I didn’t know you wanted a dinner.”

“Confound it, ma’am! must I put dress-studs in my night-shirt to convince you I want to dine?  Bring me some more!”

“There is no more fowl, dear.  I kept this from yesterday’s as a tit-bit for you.”

“What is for dinner to-day?”

“Boiled beef:  but you said expressly that dinner was to be late to-day, in consequence of the arrivals, and it is not nearly done yet.”

“I don’t care, bring it!”

The mention of the arrivals sent the Admiral up to a white heat again.

“But, my—­”

“Bring it!”

It was brought.  The Admiral had two helpings, and then a glass of grog.

“Go.”

Mrs. Buzza withdrew.  Left to himself, the Admiral tossed, and turned, and fumed, and swore, lay still for a while, and then repeated the process backwards.  After a time the bed-clothes began to prick him, and the heat to become a positive torture.  He leapt out, and tore at the bell-rope, until it came away in his hand—­just as his wife reappeared.