"What is for dinner to-day?"

"Boiled beef: but you said expressly that dinner was to be late
to-day, in consequence of the arrivals, and it is not nearly done
yet."

"I don't care, bring it!"

The mention of the arrivals sent the Admiral up to a white heat
again.

"But, my--"

"Bring it!"

It was brought. The Admiral had two helpings, and then a glass of
grog.

"Go."

Mrs. Buzza withdrew. Left to himself, the Admiral tossed, and
turned, and fumed, and swore, lay still for a while, and then
repeated the process backwards. After a time the bed-clothes began
to prick him, and the heat to become a positive torture. He leapt
out, and tore at the bell-rope, until it came away in his hand--just
as his wife reappeared.

"Will you kindly inform me what the devil's wrong with this bed?
Who made it?"