“Pooh, my dear fellow,” snapped the Admiral, “it is natural that the feelings of a few will be hurt; but if once we begin to elect the ’Jolly Trojans’—­”

The barrow had drawn near meanwhile, and now halted at the Admiral’s feet.  From behind it stepped into view an exceeding small boy, attired mainly in a gigantic pair of corduroys that reached to the armpits, and were secured with string around the shoulders.  His face was a mask of woe, and he staunched his tears on a very grimy shirt-sleeve as he stood and gazed mutely into the Admiral’s face.

“Go away, boy!” said Admiral Buzza severely.

The boy sobbed loudly, but made no sign of moving.

“Go away, I tell you!”

“’Tes for you, sir.”

“For me?  What does the boy mean?”

“Iss, sir.  Missusses orders that I was to bring et to Adm’ral Buzza’s; an’ ef I don’t pay out Billy Higgs for this nex’ time I meets wi’ ’un—­”

“The child’s daft!” roared the Admiral.  “D——­ the boy! what has Billy Higgs to do with me?”

“Poured a teacupful o’ water down the nape o’ my breeches when I’d got ha’f-way up the hill an’ cudn’ set the barrow down to fight ’un—­the coward!  Boo-hoo!” and tears flowed again at the recollection.

“What is it?”

“Cake, sir.”

“Cake!”

“Iss, sir—­cake.”

The youth stifled a sob, and removed the white cover from the wheelbarrow.

“Bless my soul!” gasped the Admiral, “there must be some mistake.”

“It certainly seems to be cake,” observed the Honourable Frederic, examining the load through his eye-glass; “and very good cake, too, by the smell.”

[Illustration:  “It certainly seems to be cake,” observed the Honourable Frederic.]

He was right.  High on the barrow, and symmetrically piled, rested five-and-twenty huge cakes—­yellow cakes such as all Trojans love—­ each large as a mill-stone, tinctured with saffron, plentifully stowed with currants, and crisp with brown crust, steaming to heaven, and wooing the nostrils of the gods.

“Bless my soul!” repeated the Admiral, “but I never ordered this.”

Each member of the group in turn advanced, inspected the cake, sniffed the savour, pronounced it excellent, and looked from the Admiral to the boy for explanation.

“Mrs. Dymond down to the ‘Man-’o-War’ sent et, sir, wi’ her compliments to Maaster Sam, an’ hopin’ as he’ll find et plum i’ the bakin’ as it leaves her at present, an’ the currants all a-picked careful, knowin’ as he’d a sweet tooth.”

“Sam!  Do you mean to tell me that Sam—­that my son—­ordered this? Upon my word, of all—­”

“Didn’ azackly order et, sir.  Won et fair an’ square.  Bill Odgers comed nex’ wi’ seven-an’-ninety gallon.  But Master Sam topped the lot by a dozen gallon aisy.”

“Gallons!  What the devil is the boy talking bout?”