prefer a walk for my holiday."



LIEUTENANT LAPENOTIERE.


The night-porter at the Admiralty had been sleeping in his chair.
He was red-eyed and wore his livery coat buttoned at random.
He grumbled to himself as he opened the great door.

He carried a glass-screened candle, and held it somewhat above the
level of his forehead--which was protuberant and heavily pock-marked.
Under the light he peered out at the visitor, who stood tall and
stiff, with uniform overcoat buttoned to the chin, between the Ionic
pillars of the portico.

"Who's there?"

"Lieutenant Lapenotiere, of the _Pickle_ schooner--with dispatches."

"Dispatches?" echoed the night-porter. Out beyond the screen of
masonry that shut off the Board of Admiralty's forecourt from
Whitehall, one of the tired post-horses started blowing through its
nostrils on this foggy night.

"From Admiral Collingwood--Mediterranean Fleet off Cadiz--sixteen
days," answered the visitor curtly. "Is everyone abed?"

"Admiral Collingwood? Why Admiral Collingwood?" The night-porter