"The braces, my lord--your Lordship has them forepart behind, if I
may suggest--"

"Damn the braces!" swore the old gentleman. "Where is he? Hi,
Tylney!" as he caught sight of the Secretary. "Where are we to go?
My room, I suppose?"

"The fire is out there, my lord. . . . 'Tis past three in the
morning. But after sending word to awake you, I hunted round and by
good luck found a plenty of promising embers in the Board Room grate.
On top of these I've piled what remained of my own fire, and Dobson
has set a lamp there--"

"You've been devilish quick, Tylney. Dressed like a buck you are,
too!"

"Your Lordship's wig," suggested the valet.

"Damn the wig!" Lord Barham snatched it and attempted to stick it on
top of his night-cap, damned the night-cap, and, plucking it off,
flung it to the man.

"I happened to be sitting up late, my lord, over the _Aeolus_
papers," said Mr. Secretary Tylney.

"Ha?" Then, to the valet, "The dressing-gown there! Don't fumble!
. . . So this is Captain--"

"Lieutenant, sir: Lapenotiere, commanding the _Pickle_ schooner."