Breitmann smothered a laugh and Fitzgerald a curse.
"The quicker we get back to the cellar the better," was the former's observation.
And they returned at a clip, scrambling into the cellar as quickly and silently as they could, and made for the upper floors.
"Come into my room," said Fitzgerald; "it's only midnight." Breitmann agreed.

If he had any reluctance, he did not show it.
Fitzgerald produced cigars.
"Do my clothes look anything like yours ?" asked Breitmann dryly, striking a match.
"Possibly." They looked themselves over for any real damage.

There were no rents, but there were cobwebs on the wool and streaks of coal dust on the linen.
"We shall have to send our clothes to the village tailor.

The admiral's valet might think it odd." "Where do you suppose he comes from ?" "I don't care where.

What's he after, to take all this trouble?
Something big, I'll warrant." And then, for a time, they smoked like Turks, in silence.
"By George, it's a good joke; you and I trying to choke each other, while the real burglar makes off." "It has some droll sides." "And you all but broke my arm." Breitmann chuckled.