7/25 'You mean the Lord Mayor.' 'No I don't!' cried the boy. 'Hurrah for the admiral! Hurrah for the admiral! For-ward!' At this word of command, the Welsh wig and its wearer were borne without resistance into the back parlour, as at the head of a boarding party of five hundred men; and Uncle Sol and his nephew were speedily engaged on a fried sole with a prospect of steak to follow. The Lord Mayor's your admiral.' 'Oh, is he though!' said the boy, shaking his head. 'Why, the Sword Bearer's better than him. He draws his sword sometimes. |