His Coxswain, Liam Desmond, and his big mate Patrick Furfy, Lewrie's longtime cabin servant and cook Aspinall, and the very big Black sailor (most recently his personal bodyguard) Jones Nelson had come into the hall, so it really did become a grand reunion.

Introductions had to be made all round, from Lord Peter, who had precedence, down to the burly Irishman, Furfy. Then there came Lewrie's barrister's clerk, one Mr. Sadler, who was forced to play his usual role of coughing into his fist and "aheming" to beat the band to herd Lewrie down the hallway to the proper courtroom. "Sir… sir. Captain Lewrie? Ahem. Mister MacDougall suggests we should be entering… ahem?"

"Right, right then," Lewrie finally had to allow. "My pardons, Mister Sadler, and we'll be going. Lead on, do you please."

The long and heavy table set aside for Defence Counsel was piled high with octavos bound in "law calf" the colour of pie crust, with a large easel standing off by the far wall, and something framed nearby, currently covered, and as big as a bed sheet.

"Joy of the morning, Captain Lewrie!" his young Puck of an attorney declared, spreading his arms wide, and swirling the black legal "stuff" robe he wore. Mr. Andrew MacDougall, Esquire, stood about four inches shy of six feet, plump, round, and moon-faced; no amount of dark cloth could make him appear sober; nor did the stiff white peruke with three tight horizontal side-curls and out-standing ribbon-bound queue that jutted from the nape of his neck over his generous dark blond hair. MacDougall might have come extremely well recommended, but Lewrie still thought of him as the merest boy, who should still have been playing pranks at university.