Perceiving he was about to take leave, Kneebone ventured to ask whom he had had the honour of addressing. My name is Armytage—Lord Ernest Armytage. He would always see the picture of the huge, raw-boned Dutchman, haranguing and thundering the word of God into the dull ears of South Sea Islanders, who, an hour later, would be carrying fruit penitently to their wooden images. When he had finished he took up the wine list and ordered a bottle of dry champagne. “Shot through the lungs,” he remarked.
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