Chapter Four.The rest of that day passed gloomily for Sydney, who was in the garden just before dinner, when Barney came up to him.“Seen him, Master Sydney?” he said gloomily.“Seen who? My father?”“No, my boy, Panama. Strikes me he’s cut and run, and when the skipper hears on it there’ll be no end of a row.”“Oh, nonsense! He’s hiding in the lofts, or one of the outhouses, Barney.”“No, my lad, I’ve hunted ’em all over with a hay-fork.”“And of course you didn’t find him. If he saw you coming with a two-pronged fork what would he think?”“But I wasn’t going to job on him with it, Master Syd.”“How was he to know that, Barney?”“’Cause I’m allus such a good father to him.”“And hit him with the rake-handle only this morning.”“Well, that would only loosen his skin a bit, and give him room to grow. Do him good.”“Don’t see it, Barney. Wouldn’t do me any good, only make me wild.”“But you don’t think he’s cut and run, do you, lad?”“I dare say he has, but he’ll soon come back.”“Only let me get hold of him then.”“If you touch him when he does, I’ll tell my father and Sir Thomas you ill-use him.”“What a shame! Master Syd, you shouldn’t. But you do think he’ll come back, sir?”“Why, of course.”“That’s right. I want him to go along o’ you.”“Along with me?”“Of course. I heared the skipper was going to take you up to town to-morrow to see your new captain.”“Oh!” ejaculated Syd; and he turned sharp round and ran into the house, where he was soon after seated at table with his uncle and father, feeling that the servants were watching him, and expecting every moment to hear some allusion to the next day’s journey.But though no word of the kind was said, Syd cracked no walnuts that night, but sat gloomily over the dessert till his uncle filled his glass, called upon him to pass the port to his father, and then in a loud voice said—“Here’s health and success to Sydney Belton—middy, master’s mate, lieutenant, commander, post—captain, admiral.”“Hear! hear!” cried Captain Belton; and Sydney sat feeling more guilty than ever he had felt in his life.For his brain was full of thoughts that he dared not have laid bare, and his inclination was trying to drag down the balance in which he felt that he hung.As he sat there holding on tightly by the nut-crackers that he had not used, he felt as if he should have to answer all manner of questions directly, and be put through a terrible ordeal; but to his intense relief, the conversation turned upon an expedition to Portobello, and the way in which certain ships had been handled, the unfortunate officers in command not having done their duty to the satisfaction of the admiral. And as this argument seemed to grow more exciting the boy softly slipped from his chair and went out again to his place of meditation—the garden.“Shall I—shan’t I?” he said to himself. Should he make a bold dash, and go off like heroes he had read of before, seeking his fortune anywhere?He was quite ready to do this, but in a misty way it seemed to him that there would be no fortune to be found; and in addition, it would be going in direct opposition to his father’s and uncle’s wishes, and they would never forgive him.“No,” he said, as he walked up and down the broad walk nearest the road, “I must give up and go to sea.”But even as he said this softly, he felt so much on the balance, that he knew that a very little would send him away.That very little came unexpectedly, for as he walked on down the garden in the darkness, where the short sturdy oak-trees sent their branches over the path on one side, and overhung the road on the other, a voice whispered his name—“Master Syd!”“Yes. What is it?”“Hush! Don’t make such a row, or they’ll hear you.”“Who is it—Pan?”“Yes, Master Syd.”“Where are you?”“Sittin’ straddlin’ on this here big bough.”“You’ve come back then, sir. Your father thought you had run away,” said Syd sternly.“So I have; and I arn’t come back, on’y to see you, Master Syd.”“Come down, then. What are you doing up that tree?”“On’y waiting to talk to you.”“But your father says he is going to rope’s-end you for running away.”“No, he isn’t going to, because I shan’t come back.”“But you are back.”“Oh no, I arn’t, Master Syd. I’m not going to be knocked about with rake-handles, and then sent off to sea. How would you like it?”“I’m not knocked about, Pan; but I’m going to be sent off to sea.”“Then don’t go, Master Syd.”There was no answer for the moment; then the latter looked up in among the dark branches, where the dying leaves still clung.“You said you had come back to see me, Pan.”“Yes, Master Syd.”“What for? Because you repented?”“No; it was to ask you—”“What for? Some money, Pan?”“No, Master Syd,” replied the boy in a hesitating way. “Hist! Listen! Some one coming?”“No; I can’t hear any one. Why did you come back?”“You don’t want to go to sea, Master Syd, do you?”“No.”“More don’t I, and I won’t go.”“Well?”“I’m going right away, Master Syd, to make a fortune. Come along o’ me.”“What!” said Syd, who felt startled at the suddenness of the proposition, one which accorded so well with his own wishes. “Go with you?”“Oh, I don’t mean as mates, only go together,” whispered Pan. “You’d always be master, and I’d always clean your knives and boots for you.”“And what should we do, Pan? Where could we go so as to make a living?”“Make a living?” said Pan, in a wondering tone. “Don’t want to make a living—we want to make a fortune.”“But we must have some money.”“I’ve got two shillings saved up.”Syd’s brow puckered. He knew a little more about the necessities of life, and did not feel disposed to set sail on the river of life with no more than two shillings.“But you’ve got some money, Master Syd?”“Yes; eight or nine shillings, and a crown uncle gave me day before yesterday.”“Come along then, that’s enough.”Syd hesitated, and thought of the five guineas thrown down in his room.“If you don’t come they’ll send you to sea.”That settled it. So evenly was the lad balanced, that a feather-weight was enough to work a change. His dread of the sea sent the scale down heavily.“Wait here,” he said.“What for?”“Till I’ve been and tied up some clean clothes to take with me.”“Never mind your clothes,” whispered Pan. “If your father catches you there’ll be no chance.”“Look here,” said Syd sharply, “if I’m going with you, Pan Strake, I shall do as I like. I’m not going to be ordered about by you.”“No, Master Syd, I won’t say nothing no more.”Sydney stood thinking for a moment or two, not hesitating, for his mind seemed quite made up. Then without another word he stepped on to the grass, and ran up the garden, keeping out of sight of the occupants of the dining-room, by interposing the bushes between him and them.His heart began to beat heavily now, as the full force of that which he was about to do impressed him on hearing his father’s voice speaking loudly; and as he crept nearer the window, so as to pass it, behind the bushes, and reach the entrance, he heard the captain say plainly, his words sounding loudly from the open dining-room window—“Yes, Tom, I’ve quite made up my mind. It will be the best thing for him. It will be a better school than the one he is at. Time he began to learn the profession, eh?”“Yes, quite; and good luck to him,” said his uncle, gruffly.Syd stopped to hear no more, but hurried to the front, waited till all was silent in the pantry, and then slipped up to his bedroom, where a few minutes sufficed for him to make up a change of clothes in a handkerchief.That was all he wanted, he told himself. No: a brush and comb.“Comb will do,” he muttered; “people going to seek their fortunes don’t want brushes.”He ran his hand in the darkness along the dressing-table, and touched not a comb, but a tiny pile of money.Five shillings! And on his dressing-table! How did they come there?He knew the next moment they were not shillings but guineas, the five he passionately threw down in a corner of the room, and when the maid came up to straighten the place she must have found them and placed them on the table. It was tempting.Syd was going away out into the wide world with only a few shillings in his pocket, and these guineas, which were honestly his, would be invaluable, and help him perhaps out of many a scrape. Should he take them or no?Syd pushed them away from him. They were given to him because his uncle believed that he was going patiently with him to see his friend in London. If he took them it would seem despicable, and he could not bear that; so hurrying out of the room, he ran down-stairs lightly and as quickly as possible, so as to get away and beyond the power of the house, which seemed to be all at once growing dear to him, and acting like a magnet to draw him back.As he cleared the door and made for the shrubs, he heard his uncle’s voice as he laughed at something the captain said. Then Captain Belton spoke again, and Syd clapped his hand and his bundle to his ears to stop the sound.“If I listen I shan’t be able to go,” he said with a sigh; and he was just about to break into a trot to run down and join Pan, when there was a footstep on the gravel, and the boy stopped short in the shadow cast by a tree.“Father!” he said to himself. “Can he have found out so soon?”The step on the gravel came nearer, and Syd knew that it must have passed right under the tree where Pan was hiding.“Could father have gone down there so quickly?” thought the boy.Then all doubt was at an end, for he whose steps were heard stopped close at hand, muttering aloud—“Swears he ketched sight on him in the road to-night, so he must have come home. If I on’y do get howd on him by the scruff of his precious neck, I’ll teach him to run away.”A cold chill ran through Sydney, and he shivered. Suppose his father knew that he was going to do this mean, contemptible thing—run away and degrade himself—what would he say? and how would he act? Like Barnaby spoke, his old boatswain and gardener?Syd shivered again. He was not afraid of the pain, but he shrank from the idea of the degradation. He fancied himself held by the collar and a stick raised to punish him. It was horrible.“If I don’t loosen his hide my name arn’t what it is,” growled the old boatswain; and he moved on, going close by Sydney, who stood listening with heavily beating heart till Barney had gone right up to the back of the house.Then only did Sydney run on till he was beneath the tree, and called Pan.“You there?”“Yes, Master Syd.”“Did you hear who that was down the garden?”“Father.”“Did you hear what he said?”There was a low laugh up in the tree.“Yes, I heared; but he has got to ketch me first. Ready?”“Yes, I’m ready, Pan.”“Get up here then.”“Why?”“You can get out along one of these big branches, and drop out into the road.”“No, no, come down, and let’s go by the gate.”“And come upon my father waiting with a rope’s-end? Why, when he’s wild he lets out anyhow, and in the dark you’d get it as much as me. This way.”Syd listened, and heard the boy creep actively along the bough and drop down on the other side of the fence.“Catch,” he whispered. “Ready?”“Yes.”He threw over his bundle, and then swung himself up into the tree, got astride the big bough, and was working himself along, when a sound close at hand made him stop short to listen.It was intensely dark where he sat beneath the thickly-leaved tree, and all was quite still. But he felt sure that he had heard some one approaching, and just as he had made up his mind to get further along, Pan’s voice reached him from the other side of the paling—“Come on.”Hoping that he might have been mistaken, Syd changed his position, so that he hung over the bough, and had just begun to edge along, when there was a quick rustling behind him, and the breaking down of shrubs, as if a man was forcing himself through, and the next minute he felt one of his legs seized.“My father!” thought Syd, and a cold chill of dread, shame, and misery ran through him as he lay across the bough, silent and motionless, but clinging to it with all his might.“Got ye, have I, Pan-y-mar?” growled a husky voice. “Now then, let go, and come and take it in your room, or I’ll lay on here.”The first sound of that voice sent a warm glow through Syd, and thawed his frozen faculties.Exulting in the idea that it was only the old boatswain, he drew himself all together as he held on with his arms to the bough, and then he kicked out with all his might; the attack being so unexpected, that as Barney received both feet in his chest, he loosened his hold, grasped wildly at the air to save himself, and then came down in a sitting position with sufficient force to evoke a groan; while by the time he had recovered himself sufficiently to rise and get to the fence, he could hear the rapid beat of steps in the distance.“Why, there must be some one with him,” growled Barney. “All right, my boy, on’y wait a bit. You’ll come crawling round the cottage ’fore you’re many hours older, and I’ll lay that there rope’s-end in the tub. It’ll make it lie closer and heavier round your back. Oh!”He had taken a step to go back out of the shrubbery to the path, when an acute pain ran up his spine, and made him limp along to the gardener’s cottage at the bottom of the grounds, grumbling to himself, and realising that men of sixty can’t fall so lightly as those who are forty years younger.“But never mind, I’ll make him pay for the lot. He shan’t play tricks with me. Lor’, I wish I was going to sea again, and had that boy under me; I’d make him—Oh, murder! he’s a’most broke my back.”
The rest of that day passed gloomily for Sydney, who was in the garden just before dinner, when Barney came up to him.
“Seen him, Master Sydney?” he said gloomily.
“Seen who? My father?”
“No, my boy, Panama. Strikes me he’s cut and run, and when the skipper hears on it there’ll be no end of a row.”
“Oh, nonsense! He’s hiding in the lofts, or one of the outhouses, Barney.”
“No, my lad, I’ve hunted ’em all over with a hay-fork.”
“And of course you didn’t find him. If he saw you coming with a two-pronged fork what would he think?”
“But I wasn’t going to job on him with it, Master Syd.”
“How was he to know that, Barney?”
“’Cause I’m allus such a good father to him.”
“And hit him with the rake-handle only this morning.”
“Well, that would only loosen his skin a bit, and give him room to grow. Do him good.”
“Don’t see it, Barney. Wouldn’t do me any good, only make me wild.”
“But you don’t think he’s cut and run, do you, lad?”
“I dare say he has, but he’ll soon come back.”
“Only let me get hold of him then.”
“If you touch him when he does, I’ll tell my father and Sir Thomas you ill-use him.”
“What a shame! Master Syd, you shouldn’t. But you do think he’ll come back, sir?”
“Why, of course.”
“That’s right. I want him to go along o’ you.”
“Along with me?”
“Of course. I heared the skipper was going to take you up to town to-morrow to see your new captain.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Syd; and he turned sharp round and ran into the house, where he was soon after seated at table with his uncle and father, feeling that the servants were watching him, and expecting every moment to hear some allusion to the next day’s journey.
But though no word of the kind was said, Syd cracked no walnuts that night, but sat gloomily over the dessert till his uncle filled his glass, called upon him to pass the port to his father, and then in a loud voice said—
“Here’s health and success to Sydney Belton—middy, master’s mate, lieutenant, commander, post—captain, admiral.”
“Hear! hear!” cried Captain Belton; and Sydney sat feeling more guilty than ever he had felt in his life.
For his brain was full of thoughts that he dared not have laid bare, and his inclination was trying to drag down the balance in which he felt that he hung.
As he sat there holding on tightly by the nut-crackers that he had not used, he felt as if he should have to answer all manner of questions directly, and be put through a terrible ordeal; but to his intense relief, the conversation turned upon an expedition to Portobello, and the way in which certain ships had been handled, the unfortunate officers in command not having done their duty to the satisfaction of the admiral. And as this argument seemed to grow more exciting the boy softly slipped from his chair and went out again to his place of meditation—the garden.
“Shall I—shan’t I?” he said to himself. Should he make a bold dash, and go off like heroes he had read of before, seeking his fortune anywhere?
He was quite ready to do this, but in a misty way it seemed to him that there would be no fortune to be found; and in addition, it would be going in direct opposition to his father’s and uncle’s wishes, and they would never forgive him.
“No,” he said, as he walked up and down the broad walk nearest the road, “I must give up and go to sea.”
But even as he said this softly, he felt so much on the balance, that he knew that a very little would send him away.
That very little came unexpectedly, for as he walked on down the garden in the darkness, where the short sturdy oak-trees sent their branches over the path on one side, and overhung the road on the other, a voice whispered his name—
“Master Syd!”
“Yes. What is it?”
“Hush! Don’t make such a row, or they’ll hear you.”
“Who is it—Pan?”
“Yes, Master Syd.”
“Where are you?”
“Sittin’ straddlin’ on this here big bough.”
“You’ve come back then, sir. Your father thought you had run away,” said Syd sternly.
“So I have; and I arn’t come back, on’y to see you, Master Syd.”
“Come down, then. What are you doing up that tree?”
“On’y waiting to talk to you.”
“But your father says he is going to rope’s-end you for running away.”
“No, he isn’t going to, because I shan’t come back.”
“But you are back.”
“Oh no, I arn’t, Master Syd. I’m not going to be knocked about with rake-handles, and then sent off to sea. How would you like it?”
“I’m not knocked about, Pan; but I’m going to be sent off to sea.”
“Then don’t go, Master Syd.”
There was no answer for the moment; then the latter looked up in among the dark branches, where the dying leaves still clung.
“You said you had come back to see me, Pan.”
“Yes, Master Syd.”
“What for? Because you repented?”
“No; it was to ask you—”
“What for? Some money, Pan?”
“No, Master Syd,” replied the boy in a hesitating way. “Hist! Listen! Some one coming?”
“No; I can’t hear any one. Why did you come back?”
“You don’t want to go to sea, Master Syd, do you?”
“No.”
“More don’t I, and I won’t go.”
“Well?”
“I’m going right away, Master Syd, to make a fortune. Come along o’ me.”
“What!” said Syd, who felt startled at the suddenness of the proposition, one which accorded so well with his own wishes. “Go with you?”
“Oh, I don’t mean as mates, only go together,” whispered Pan. “You’d always be master, and I’d always clean your knives and boots for you.”
“And what should we do, Pan? Where could we go so as to make a living?”
“Make a living?” said Pan, in a wondering tone. “Don’t want to make a living—we want to make a fortune.”
“But we must have some money.”
“I’ve got two shillings saved up.”
Syd’s brow puckered. He knew a little more about the necessities of life, and did not feel disposed to set sail on the river of life with no more than two shillings.
“But you’ve got some money, Master Syd?”
“Yes; eight or nine shillings, and a crown uncle gave me day before yesterday.”
“Come along then, that’s enough.”
Syd hesitated, and thought of the five guineas thrown down in his room.
“If you don’t come they’ll send you to sea.”
That settled it. So evenly was the lad balanced, that a feather-weight was enough to work a change. His dread of the sea sent the scale down heavily.
“Wait here,” he said.
“What for?”
“Till I’ve been and tied up some clean clothes to take with me.”
“Never mind your clothes,” whispered Pan. “If your father catches you there’ll be no chance.”
“Look here,” said Syd sharply, “if I’m going with you, Pan Strake, I shall do as I like. I’m not going to be ordered about by you.”
“No, Master Syd, I won’t say nothing no more.”
Sydney stood thinking for a moment or two, not hesitating, for his mind seemed quite made up. Then without another word he stepped on to the grass, and ran up the garden, keeping out of sight of the occupants of the dining-room, by interposing the bushes between him and them.
His heart began to beat heavily now, as the full force of that which he was about to do impressed him on hearing his father’s voice speaking loudly; and as he crept nearer the window, so as to pass it, behind the bushes, and reach the entrance, he heard the captain say plainly, his words sounding loudly from the open dining-room window—
“Yes, Tom, I’ve quite made up my mind. It will be the best thing for him. It will be a better school than the one he is at. Time he began to learn the profession, eh?”
“Yes, quite; and good luck to him,” said his uncle, gruffly.
Syd stopped to hear no more, but hurried to the front, waited till all was silent in the pantry, and then slipped up to his bedroom, where a few minutes sufficed for him to make up a change of clothes in a handkerchief.
That was all he wanted, he told himself. No: a brush and comb.
“Comb will do,” he muttered; “people going to seek their fortunes don’t want brushes.”
He ran his hand in the darkness along the dressing-table, and touched not a comb, but a tiny pile of money.
Five shillings! And on his dressing-table! How did they come there?
He knew the next moment they were not shillings but guineas, the five he passionately threw down in a corner of the room, and when the maid came up to straighten the place she must have found them and placed them on the table. It was tempting.
Syd was going away out into the wide world with only a few shillings in his pocket, and these guineas, which were honestly his, would be invaluable, and help him perhaps out of many a scrape. Should he take them or no?
Syd pushed them away from him. They were given to him because his uncle believed that he was going patiently with him to see his friend in London. If he took them it would seem despicable, and he could not bear that; so hurrying out of the room, he ran down-stairs lightly and as quickly as possible, so as to get away and beyond the power of the house, which seemed to be all at once growing dear to him, and acting like a magnet to draw him back.
As he cleared the door and made for the shrubs, he heard his uncle’s voice as he laughed at something the captain said. Then Captain Belton spoke again, and Syd clapped his hand and his bundle to his ears to stop the sound.
“If I listen I shan’t be able to go,” he said with a sigh; and he was just about to break into a trot to run down and join Pan, when there was a footstep on the gravel, and the boy stopped short in the shadow cast by a tree.
“Father!” he said to himself. “Can he have found out so soon?”
The step on the gravel came nearer, and Syd knew that it must have passed right under the tree where Pan was hiding.
“Could father have gone down there so quickly?” thought the boy.
Then all doubt was at an end, for he whose steps were heard stopped close at hand, muttering aloud—
“Swears he ketched sight on him in the road to-night, so he must have come home. If I on’y do get howd on him by the scruff of his precious neck, I’ll teach him to run away.”
A cold chill ran through Sydney, and he shivered. Suppose his father knew that he was going to do this mean, contemptible thing—run away and degrade himself—what would he say? and how would he act? Like Barnaby spoke, his old boatswain and gardener?
Syd shivered again. He was not afraid of the pain, but he shrank from the idea of the degradation. He fancied himself held by the collar and a stick raised to punish him. It was horrible.
“If I don’t loosen his hide my name arn’t what it is,” growled the old boatswain; and he moved on, going close by Sydney, who stood listening with heavily beating heart till Barney had gone right up to the back of the house.
Then only did Sydney run on till he was beneath the tree, and called Pan.
“You there?”
“Yes, Master Syd.”
“Did you hear who that was down the garden?”
“Father.”
“Did you hear what he said?”
There was a low laugh up in the tree.
“Yes, I heared; but he has got to ketch me first. Ready?”
“Yes, I’m ready, Pan.”
“Get up here then.”
“Why?”
“You can get out along one of these big branches, and drop out into the road.”
“No, no, come down, and let’s go by the gate.”
“And come upon my father waiting with a rope’s-end? Why, when he’s wild he lets out anyhow, and in the dark you’d get it as much as me. This way.”
Syd listened, and heard the boy creep actively along the bough and drop down on the other side of the fence.
“Catch,” he whispered. “Ready?”
“Yes.”
He threw over his bundle, and then swung himself up into the tree, got astride the big bough, and was working himself along, when a sound close at hand made him stop short to listen.
It was intensely dark where he sat beneath the thickly-leaved tree, and all was quite still. But he felt sure that he had heard some one approaching, and just as he had made up his mind to get further along, Pan’s voice reached him from the other side of the paling—
“Come on.”
Hoping that he might have been mistaken, Syd changed his position, so that he hung over the bough, and had just begun to edge along, when there was a quick rustling behind him, and the breaking down of shrubs, as if a man was forcing himself through, and the next minute he felt one of his legs seized.
“My father!” thought Syd, and a cold chill of dread, shame, and misery ran through him as he lay across the bough, silent and motionless, but clinging to it with all his might.
“Got ye, have I, Pan-y-mar?” growled a husky voice. “Now then, let go, and come and take it in your room, or I’ll lay on here.”
The first sound of that voice sent a warm glow through Syd, and thawed his frozen faculties.
Exulting in the idea that it was only the old boatswain, he drew himself all together as he held on with his arms to the bough, and then he kicked out with all his might; the attack being so unexpected, that as Barney received both feet in his chest, he loosened his hold, grasped wildly at the air to save himself, and then came down in a sitting position with sufficient force to evoke a groan; while by the time he had recovered himself sufficiently to rise and get to the fence, he could hear the rapid beat of steps in the distance.
“Why, there must be some one with him,” growled Barney. “All right, my boy, on’y wait a bit. You’ll come crawling round the cottage ’fore you’re many hours older, and I’ll lay that there rope’s-end in the tub. It’ll make it lie closer and heavier round your back. Oh!”
He had taken a step to go back out of the shrubbery to the path, when an acute pain ran up his spine, and made him limp along to the gardener’s cottage at the bottom of the grounds, grumbling to himself, and realising that men of sixty can’t fall so lightly as those who are forty years younger.
“But never mind, I’ll make him pay for the lot. He shan’t play tricks with me. Lor’, I wish I was going to sea again, and had that boy under me; I’d make him—Oh, murder! he’s a’most broke my back.”
Chapter Five.As Syd kicked himself free of Barney’s grasp he heard the heavy fall, but he stopped for no more. A couple of vigorous sidewise movements took him clear of the fence, a couple more beyond the ditch, and before Barney had begun to think of getting up Syd had whispered to his companion the magic words—“Your father!”The next minute, hand in hand, and keeping step, the two boys were running hard along the road leading away into the country, thinking of only one thing, and that—how great a distance they could put between them and the Heronry.Fear lent them wings, for in imagination they saw the old boatswain running off to the house, spreading the alarm, and Captain Belton ordering the servants out in pursuit, determined to hunt them down and bring them back to punishment.Their swift run, in spite of their will, soon settled down into a steady trot, and at the end of a couple of miles this had become a sharp walk. Every hair was wet with perspiration, and as they stopped from time to time to listen, their hearts beat heavily, and their breath came in a laboured way.“Hear anything?” said Sydney at last.“No; they’ve given it up,” replied Pan. “Father can’t run far now.”“Think they’ll get out the horses, Pan?”“Dunno. If they do we shall hear ’em plain enough, and we can take to the woods. They’ll never ketch us now. Arn’t you glad you’ve come?”Sydney did not answer, for if he had replied he would have told the truth, and he did not wish to tell the truth then, because it would have been humiliating.For there they were tramping along the dark road going west, with the stars shining down brightly, and, save the distant barking of a dog, all most mournfully still.Pan made another attempt at conversation.“Won’t my father be wild because he arn’t got me to hit?”Syd was too deep in his own thoughts to reply, for he was picturing the library at the Heronry, and his father and uncle talking together after returning from a vain pursuit. He could picture their florid faces and shining silvery hair by the light of the wax candles. He even seemed to see how many broad wrinkles there were in his father’s forehead as he stood frowning; and then something seemed to be asking the boy what he was doing there.“Getting tired, Master Syd?” said Pan, after a long pause, filled by thebeat beatof their footsteps.But still there was no answer. The latter question took too much study, and suggested other questions in its unanswerable-ness.Where was he going? and why was he going? and why had he chosen this road, which led toward the great forest with its endless trees and bogs?Sydney could not answer these questions, and by way of relieving the buzzing worry in his own brain, he turned to Pan and became a questioner.“Where are we going to sleep to-night?”“Eh?”“Where are we going to sleep to-night?”Pan took off his hat and scratched his head.“I never thought of that,” he said.“We can’t go on walking all night.”“Can’t we?”“Of course we can’t. We shall have to knock at some cottage, and ask them to give us a bed.”“But they won’t,” said Pan, sagely enough. “’Tarn’t likely at this time o’ night; I wish we could find a haystack.”Pan’s wish did not obtain fulfilment, and the two lads tramped on along the lonely road for quite a couple of hours longer, when hunger began to combine with weariness; and these two at last made themselves so plainly heard, that Sydney came to a full stop.“Yes?” said Pan.“I did not speak, I was only thinking,” said Sydney, drearily.“What were you thinking, Master Syd?”“That all this is very stupid, and that we should be ever so much more comfortable in bed.”Pan sighed.“Oh, I dunno,” he said. “I shouldn’t, on’y my legs ache ever so.”“We ought to have brought a lot of cold meat and bread with us, Pan.”“Ah! wouldn’t it be good now!”“How long do you think it will be before morning, so that we can get to a town, and buy some bread and milk?”“I dunno, Master Syd. It can’t be late yet, and it’s ever so far to a town this way, ’cause it’s all forest for miles and miles.”They were tramping on again now, but in a more irregular way. There was none of the vigorous pace for pace that had marked the beginning of their flight, and as the road grew more rough their steps began to err, and sometimes one, sometimes the other was a little in advance.“Don’t you wish you were back in your bed, Pan?” said Sydney at last.“No.”“Why not?”“Because father would be standing there with the rope’s-end.”This was so much to the point that Sydney did not try to pursue that vein of conversation, and they again travelled on in silence till Pan spoke—“Wish you were back in your bed, Master Syd?”“No,” said the latter sharply.“Course you don’t; ’cause your uncle would be one side o’ the bed and the captain the other, and that would be worse than being here, wouldn’t it?”No answer.“You’d ketch it, wouldn’t you, Master Syd?”Still no answer; and Pan plodded on in silence, wondering whether his young master would always be so quiet and strange.“What’s that?” said Sydney suddenly.“Rabbud.”The two lads stood listening to the rapid run of feet through the rustling fern, and then tramped on again through the darkness.Sydney was having a hard fight the greater part of the time with his thoughts, and try how he would, they seemed to be too much for him. In fact, so great a hold did they get at last, that somewhere about three o’clock he stopped short; but Pan went on with his head down till his name was sharply pronounced, when he stopped short with a start.“Why, I believe you were asleep.”“Was I, Master Syd?” said the boy, blankly looking about him. “I s’pose ’twas because I thought father was making me walk round and round the garden all night for not cleaning the boots.”“Turn round—this way.”“Yes, Master Syd. Where are we going now?”“Back again.”“Back—again?”“Yes, to the Heronry.”“What for, sir?”“Because I’ve been an idiot.”“But if we go back we shall be punished, Master Syd.”“Of course we shall. But if we go on we shall be punishing ourselves. Oh,” cried Sydney, in a voice full of rage against himself, “how could I have been such a donkey!”“It warn’t my fault,” said Pan, dolefully. “Father was after me with the rope’s-end. I was obliged to go. Let’s try another way, Master Syd.”“There is no other way,” cried the boy passionately. “There’s only one way for us to go, and that’s straight back home.”“Oh, there’s lots of other ways, Master Syd.”“No, there are not. There’s only one that we can tread.”“Which way’s that, sir?”“I told you—home.”“But I dursen’t go back, Master Syd; I dursen’t, indeed.”“Yes, you dare; and you shall too.”“Well, not till it’s light, Master Syd. It do hurt so in the dark, and you have no chance.”But Syd did not answer, only gave an involuntary shiver, and walked slowly back over the ground they had covered during the night.
As Syd kicked himself free of Barney’s grasp he heard the heavy fall, but he stopped for no more. A couple of vigorous sidewise movements took him clear of the fence, a couple more beyond the ditch, and before Barney had begun to think of getting up Syd had whispered to his companion the magic words—
“Your father!”
The next minute, hand in hand, and keeping step, the two boys were running hard along the road leading away into the country, thinking of only one thing, and that—how great a distance they could put between them and the Heronry.
Fear lent them wings, for in imagination they saw the old boatswain running off to the house, spreading the alarm, and Captain Belton ordering the servants out in pursuit, determined to hunt them down and bring them back to punishment.
Their swift run, in spite of their will, soon settled down into a steady trot, and at the end of a couple of miles this had become a sharp walk. Every hair was wet with perspiration, and as they stopped from time to time to listen, their hearts beat heavily, and their breath came in a laboured way.
“Hear anything?” said Sydney at last.
“No; they’ve given it up,” replied Pan. “Father can’t run far now.”
“Think they’ll get out the horses, Pan?”
“Dunno. If they do we shall hear ’em plain enough, and we can take to the woods. They’ll never ketch us now. Arn’t you glad you’ve come?”
Sydney did not answer, for if he had replied he would have told the truth, and he did not wish to tell the truth then, because it would have been humiliating.
For there they were tramping along the dark road going west, with the stars shining down brightly, and, save the distant barking of a dog, all most mournfully still.
Pan made another attempt at conversation.
“Won’t my father be wild because he arn’t got me to hit?”
Syd was too deep in his own thoughts to reply, for he was picturing the library at the Heronry, and his father and uncle talking together after returning from a vain pursuit. He could picture their florid faces and shining silvery hair by the light of the wax candles. He even seemed to see how many broad wrinkles there were in his father’s forehead as he stood frowning; and then something seemed to be asking the boy what he was doing there.
“Getting tired, Master Syd?” said Pan, after a long pause, filled by thebeat beatof their footsteps.
But still there was no answer. The latter question took too much study, and suggested other questions in its unanswerable-ness.
Where was he going? and why was he going? and why had he chosen this road, which led toward the great forest with its endless trees and bogs?
Sydney could not answer these questions, and by way of relieving the buzzing worry in his own brain, he turned to Pan and became a questioner.
“Where are we going to sleep to-night?”
“Eh?”
“Where are we going to sleep to-night?”
Pan took off his hat and scratched his head.
“I never thought of that,” he said.
“We can’t go on walking all night.”
“Can’t we?”
“Of course we can’t. We shall have to knock at some cottage, and ask them to give us a bed.”
“But they won’t,” said Pan, sagely enough. “’Tarn’t likely at this time o’ night; I wish we could find a haystack.”
Pan’s wish did not obtain fulfilment, and the two lads tramped on along the lonely road for quite a couple of hours longer, when hunger began to combine with weariness; and these two at last made themselves so plainly heard, that Sydney came to a full stop.
“Yes?” said Pan.
“I did not speak, I was only thinking,” said Sydney, drearily.
“What were you thinking, Master Syd?”
“That all this is very stupid, and that we should be ever so much more comfortable in bed.”
Pan sighed.
“Oh, I dunno,” he said. “I shouldn’t, on’y my legs ache ever so.”
“We ought to have brought a lot of cold meat and bread with us, Pan.”
“Ah! wouldn’t it be good now!”
“How long do you think it will be before morning, so that we can get to a town, and buy some bread and milk?”
“I dunno, Master Syd. It can’t be late yet, and it’s ever so far to a town this way, ’cause it’s all forest for miles and miles.”
They were tramping on again now, but in a more irregular way. There was none of the vigorous pace for pace that had marked the beginning of their flight, and as the road grew more rough their steps began to err, and sometimes one, sometimes the other was a little in advance.
“Don’t you wish you were back in your bed, Pan?” said Sydney at last.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because father would be standing there with the rope’s-end.”
This was so much to the point that Sydney did not try to pursue that vein of conversation, and they again travelled on in silence till Pan spoke—
“Wish you were back in your bed, Master Syd?”
“No,” said the latter sharply.
“Course you don’t; ’cause your uncle would be one side o’ the bed and the captain the other, and that would be worse than being here, wouldn’t it?”
No answer.
“You’d ketch it, wouldn’t you, Master Syd?”
Still no answer; and Pan plodded on in silence, wondering whether his young master would always be so quiet and strange.
“What’s that?” said Sydney suddenly.
“Rabbud.”
The two lads stood listening to the rapid run of feet through the rustling fern, and then tramped on again through the darkness.
Sydney was having a hard fight the greater part of the time with his thoughts, and try how he would, they seemed to be too much for him. In fact, so great a hold did they get at last, that somewhere about three o’clock he stopped short; but Pan went on with his head down till his name was sharply pronounced, when he stopped short with a start.
“Why, I believe you were asleep.”
“Was I, Master Syd?” said the boy, blankly looking about him. “I s’pose ’twas because I thought father was making me walk round and round the garden all night for not cleaning the boots.”
“Turn round—this way.”
“Yes, Master Syd. Where are we going now?”
“Back again.”
“Back—again?”
“Yes, to the Heronry.”
“What for, sir?”
“Because I’ve been an idiot.”
“But if we go back we shall be punished, Master Syd.”
“Of course we shall. But if we go on we shall be punishing ourselves. Oh,” cried Sydney, in a voice full of rage against himself, “how could I have been such a donkey!”
“It warn’t my fault,” said Pan, dolefully. “Father was after me with the rope’s-end. I was obliged to go. Let’s try another way, Master Syd.”
“There is no other way,” cried the boy passionately. “There’s only one way for us to go, and that’s straight back home.”
“Oh, there’s lots of other ways, Master Syd.”
“No, there are not. There’s only one that we can tread.”
“Which way’s that, sir?”
“I told you—home.”
“But I dursen’t go back, Master Syd; I dursen’t, indeed.”
“Yes, you dare; and you shall too.”
“Well, not till it’s light, Master Syd. It do hurt so in the dark, and you have no chance.”
But Syd did not answer, only gave an involuntary shiver, and walked slowly back over the ground they had covered during the night.
Chapter Six.A long tramp in silence; but they did not get over the ground very rapidly, for Pan’s pace grew slower and slower, and when urged by Sydney to keep up he made no reply.“Come along,” said Syd at last; “do try and make haste.”“I arn’t in a hurry,” came in a surly growl.“But I am. I want to get back before it’s light; we don’t want to be seen.”“Don’t matter whether we’re seen or whether we arn’t; they’ll be awaitin’ for us.”“Can’t help it, Pan,” said Syd with a sigh; “we’ve got to go through it.”“I hope, Master Syd, you won’t get no rope’s-end.”“I’d take yours for you if I could, Pan.”“Ah, you say so,” sneered the lad, as he dragged one foot after the other, “but you know you can’t.”“I know I would,” cried Syd, hotly. “But it’s of no use to talk. We’ve got to go through it like men would.”“Men don’t have no rope’s-ending,” grumbled Pan.They went on back for another half-mile, with the stars shining brightly, and seeming to wink derisively at them; and just as Sydney had fancied this, as he gazed up at the broad band of glittering light seen through the dense growth of trees which shut them in on either side, a loud, ringing, mocking laugh smote their ears, that sounded so strange and jeering, that the boys stopped short.“What’s that?” whispered Syd.“Only a howl. Why, you’ve heard ’em lots of times.”“But it never sounded like that before.”“You never heard it out in the woods before. There she goes again.”The shout rang out again, but more distant. “Hoi, hoi, hoi, hoi!” sounding now more like a hail.“Oh, yes, it is an owl,” said Sydney, breathing more freely. “Come along.”Pan did not move, but stood with his hands in his pockets, and his shoulders up to his ears.“Do you hear? Come along, and let’s get it over.”No answer—no movement.“Don’t be stupid, Pan. I know you’re tired, but you are no more tired than I am.”“Yes, I am—ever so much.”“You’re not. You’re pretending, because you don’t want to come back. Now then, no nonsense.”Pan stood like a stork, with his chin down upon his chest.“Will—you—come—on?”It was very dark, but Sydney could just make out that the boy shook his head.“Then it isn’t because you are so tired. It’s obstinacy.”No response.“I declare you’re as obstinate as an old donkey; and if you don’t come on I’ll serve you the same.”Pan did not stir.“Do you want me to cut a stick, and make you come, Pan?”Still no reply; and weary, hungry, and disgusted with himself as well as his companion, Sydney felt in that state of irritable rawness which can best be described as having the skin off his temper. He was just in the humour to quarrel; and now, stirred beyond bearing by his companion’s obstinacy, Syd flew at him, grasped his arm, gave it a tug which snatched it from the pocket, and roared out—“Come on!”Then he retreated a step, for, to his intense surprise, there came from the lad, who had always been obedient and respectful, a short, snappish “Shan’t!” which was more like the bark of a dog than the utterance of a boy.“What!” cried Sydney, as he recovered from his surprise, and felt the blood flush in his face.“Says I shan’t. I arn’t coming home to be larruped.”“You are not coming home?”“No, I arn’t. He’s waitin’ for me with a big rope’s-end all soaked hard, and I know what that means, so I shan’t come.”Sydney drew a long breath as he reviewed their position, and told himself that it was more his fault than that of the gardener’s boy that they were there.“I know better than he does, and ought to have stopped him instead of going with him, and he shall come back, because it’s right.”“Now then, Pan,” he said aloud, “I am going back home.”“All right, Master Syd, go home then; but I didn’t think you was such a coward.”“It isn’t being a coward to go back, Pan; it’s being a coward to run away.”“No, it arn’t.”“Yes, it is, so come along.”“I shan’t.”“Yes, you will, sir; I order you to come home with me at once.”“Shan’t come to be rope’s-ended, I tell you. I’m going away by myself if you won’t come.”“You are coming home with me, and we’re going to ask them to forgive us for being so stupid. Now then; will you come?”“No.”“Do you want me to make you?”“I don’t want no more to do with you; you’re a coward.”Sydney made a dart to seize his arm, but Pan dodged, and there was no sign of weariness now, for he bounded aside, and then set off running fast in the opposite direction to that in which his companion wished him to go.Pan placed half a dozen good yards between them before Sydney recovered from his surprise. Then without hesitation the pursuit began, both lads striving their utmost to escape and capture, and at the end of a couple of hundred yards Syd had done so well that with a final bound he flung himself upon his quarry, and grasped at his collar.The result was not anticipated. Sydney missed the collar, but the impetus he gave to the boy he pursued was sufficient to send him sprawling in the dirty road; and unable to check himself, Sydney came down heavily on Pan’s back.“Now then, will you come home?” panted Sydney.“Oh! Ah!”Two loud yells as Pan wrested himself over, strove to get up, was resisted, and then for five minutes there was a fierce wrestling bout, now down, now up, in which Sydney found himself getting the worst of it; and feeling that in another minute Pan would get free and escape, he changed his mode of attack, striking his adversary a heavy blow in the face, with the natural result that the wrestling bout became a fight.Here Sydney soon showed his superiority, easily avoiding Pan’s ugly rushes, and dealing such a shower of blows upon the lad’s head that before many minutes had elapsed Pan was seated in one of the wettest parts of the road, whimpering and howling, while Sydney stood over him with fists clenched.“You’re a coward, that’s what you are,” howled Pan.“Get up then, and I’ll show you I’m not. Do you hear?”“How–ow!”“Don’t howl like a dog. Get up, sir, and take your beating like a man,” said Syd.“I didn’t think it of you, Master Syd,” whimpered Pan.“Now will you get up and walk home?”For answer the boy got up slowly and laboriously, went on a few yards in front, and Sydney followed, feeling, as he thought, as if he was driving a donkey home.For about a mile Pan walked steadily on, with Sydney feeling better than he had since he left home, although his knuckles were bruised, and there was a dull aching sensation in one angle of his jaw. He had gained two victories, and in spite of his weariness something very near akin to satisfaction began to warm his heart, till all at once the figure of Pan began to be visible; and as at the end of another hundred yards or so they came out upon a patch of open forest land, the figure was much plainer. So was his own, as he looked down and saw in dismay that it would soon be broad daylight, that they were some miles from the Heronry, and that Pan was covered with mud, his face smeared with ruddy stains, and that he, Sydney Belton, known as “the young gentleman up at the house,” was in very little better trim.
A long tramp in silence; but they did not get over the ground very rapidly, for Pan’s pace grew slower and slower, and when urged by Sydney to keep up he made no reply.
“Come along,” said Syd at last; “do try and make haste.”
“I arn’t in a hurry,” came in a surly growl.
“But I am. I want to get back before it’s light; we don’t want to be seen.”
“Don’t matter whether we’re seen or whether we arn’t; they’ll be awaitin’ for us.”
“Can’t help it, Pan,” said Syd with a sigh; “we’ve got to go through it.”
“I hope, Master Syd, you won’t get no rope’s-end.”
“I’d take yours for you if I could, Pan.”
“Ah, you say so,” sneered the lad, as he dragged one foot after the other, “but you know you can’t.”
“I know I would,” cried Syd, hotly. “But it’s of no use to talk. We’ve got to go through it like men would.”
“Men don’t have no rope’s-ending,” grumbled Pan.
They went on back for another half-mile, with the stars shining brightly, and seeming to wink derisively at them; and just as Sydney had fancied this, as he gazed up at the broad band of glittering light seen through the dense growth of trees which shut them in on either side, a loud, ringing, mocking laugh smote their ears, that sounded so strange and jeering, that the boys stopped short.
“What’s that?” whispered Syd.
“Only a howl. Why, you’ve heard ’em lots of times.”
“But it never sounded like that before.”
“You never heard it out in the woods before. There she goes again.”
The shout rang out again, but more distant. “Hoi, hoi, hoi, hoi!” sounding now more like a hail.
“Oh, yes, it is an owl,” said Sydney, breathing more freely. “Come along.”
Pan did not move, but stood with his hands in his pockets, and his shoulders up to his ears.
“Do you hear? Come along, and let’s get it over.”
No answer—no movement.
“Don’t be stupid, Pan. I know you’re tired, but you are no more tired than I am.”
“Yes, I am—ever so much.”
“You’re not. You’re pretending, because you don’t want to come back. Now then, no nonsense.”
Pan stood like a stork, with his chin down upon his chest.
“Will—you—come—on?”
It was very dark, but Sydney could just make out that the boy shook his head.
“Then it isn’t because you are so tired. It’s obstinacy.”
No response.
“I declare you’re as obstinate as an old donkey; and if you don’t come on I’ll serve you the same.”
Pan did not stir.
“Do you want me to cut a stick, and make you come, Pan?”
Still no reply; and weary, hungry, and disgusted with himself as well as his companion, Sydney felt in that state of irritable rawness which can best be described as having the skin off his temper. He was just in the humour to quarrel; and now, stirred beyond bearing by his companion’s obstinacy, Syd flew at him, grasped his arm, gave it a tug which snatched it from the pocket, and roared out—
“Come on!”
Then he retreated a step, for, to his intense surprise, there came from the lad, who had always been obedient and respectful, a short, snappish “Shan’t!” which was more like the bark of a dog than the utterance of a boy.
“What!” cried Sydney, as he recovered from his surprise, and felt the blood flush in his face.
“Says I shan’t. I arn’t coming home to be larruped.”
“You are not coming home?”
“No, I arn’t. He’s waitin’ for me with a big rope’s-end all soaked hard, and I know what that means, so I shan’t come.”
Sydney drew a long breath as he reviewed their position, and told himself that it was more his fault than that of the gardener’s boy that they were there.
“I know better than he does, and ought to have stopped him instead of going with him, and he shall come back, because it’s right.”
“Now then, Pan,” he said aloud, “I am going back home.”
“All right, Master Syd, go home then; but I didn’t think you was such a coward.”
“It isn’t being a coward to go back, Pan; it’s being a coward to run away.”
“No, it arn’t.”
“Yes, it is, so come along.”
“I shan’t.”
“Yes, you will, sir; I order you to come home with me at once.”
“Shan’t come to be rope’s-ended, I tell you. I’m going away by myself if you won’t come.”
“You are coming home with me, and we’re going to ask them to forgive us for being so stupid. Now then; will you come?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to make you?”
“I don’t want no more to do with you; you’re a coward.”
Sydney made a dart to seize his arm, but Pan dodged, and there was no sign of weariness now, for he bounded aside, and then set off running fast in the opposite direction to that in which his companion wished him to go.
Pan placed half a dozen good yards between them before Sydney recovered from his surprise. Then without hesitation the pursuit began, both lads striving their utmost to escape and capture, and at the end of a couple of hundred yards Syd had done so well that with a final bound he flung himself upon his quarry, and grasped at his collar.
The result was not anticipated. Sydney missed the collar, but the impetus he gave to the boy he pursued was sufficient to send him sprawling in the dirty road; and unable to check himself, Sydney came down heavily on Pan’s back.
“Now then, will you come home?” panted Sydney.
“Oh! Ah!”
Two loud yells as Pan wrested himself over, strove to get up, was resisted, and then for five minutes there was a fierce wrestling bout, now down, now up, in which Sydney found himself getting the worst of it; and feeling that in another minute Pan would get free and escape, he changed his mode of attack, striking his adversary a heavy blow in the face, with the natural result that the wrestling bout became a fight.
Here Sydney soon showed his superiority, easily avoiding Pan’s ugly rushes, and dealing such a shower of blows upon the lad’s head that before many minutes had elapsed Pan was seated in one of the wettest parts of the road, whimpering and howling, while Sydney stood over him with fists clenched.
“You’re a coward, that’s what you are,” howled Pan.
“Get up then, and I’ll show you I’m not. Do you hear?”
“How–ow!”
“Don’t howl like a dog. Get up, sir, and take your beating like a man,” said Syd.
“I didn’t think it of you, Master Syd,” whimpered Pan.
“Now will you get up and walk home?”
For answer the boy got up slowly and laboriously, went on a few yards in front, and Sydney followed, feeling, as he thought, as if he was driving a donkey home.
For about a mile Pan walked steadily on, with Sydney feeling better than he had since he left home, although his knuckles were bruised, and there was a dull aching sensation in one angle of his jaw. He had gained two victories, and in spite of his weariness something very near akin to satisfaction began to warm his heart, till all at once the figure of Pan began to be visible; and as at the end of another hundred yards or so they came out upon a patch of open forest land, the figure was much plainer. So was his own, as he looked down and saw in dismay that it would soon be broad daylight, that they were some miles from the Heronry, and that Pan was covered with mud, his face smeared with ruddy stains, and that he, Sydney Belton, known as “the young gentleman up at the house,” was in very little better trim.
Chapter Seven.The day grew brighter; tiny flecks of orange and gold began to appear high up, then there was a warm glow in the east, with the birds chirping merrily in the woodlands, and then day began.But as the morning brightened Syd’s spirits grew cloudy, and as they reached another patch of wood through which ran a little stream, he stopped short, looking anxiously along the road in both directions.“We can’t go home like this, Pan,” he said. “It would be horrid.”“Well, I don’t want to go home, do I?” grumbled the boy, in an ill-used tone.“We shall have to hide here in the wood till night, and we can dry and clean our muddy clothes and have a good wash before then.”“And what are we to get to eat?”“Blackberries, and sloes, and nuts.”“Oh yes, and pretty stuff they are. One apple off the big old tree’s worth all the lot here.”“Can’t help it, Pan. We must do the best we can.”“Don’t let’s go back, Master Syd. You can’t tell how rope’s-end hurts. Alter your mind, and let’s go and seek our fortunes somewhere.”“This way,” said Syd, by way of answer; and pointing off the road, the two lads plunged farther and farther into the wood, keeping close to the little stream, which had cut its way deep down below the level; so that it was some time before they came to an open sandy spot, where, with the bright morning sun shining full upon them, they had a good refreshing wash; and soon after, as they sat in a sunny nook where the sand was deep and dry, first one and then the other nodded off to sleep.It was late in the afternoon before Syd awoke, to look up anxiously about before the full force of his position dawned upon him; and feeling faint and more low-spirited than had ever been his lot before, he sat there thinking about what he had to go through.As near as he could judge they were about five miles from the Heronry, and two hours before it grew dark would be ample time for their journey.“I may as well let him sleep,” said Syd. “He’ll only want to go away, and we can’t do that.”Then, in spite of his efforts to the contrary, his mind began to dwell upon home and the various meals. Just about dusk the dinner would be ready, and his father and uncle sitting down, while he—“Oh, I do feel so hungry!” he muttered. “I’d give anything for some bread and cheese.”He went to the side of the little stream, lay down, and placing his lips to the clear cool water, drank heartily a draught that was refreshing, but did not allay his hunger; and after sitting down and thinking for a time, he put his hands in his pockets and felt his money. But it was of no use out there in the woods.He sat thinking again, wishing now that they had gone on in spite of their condition, for then the trouble would have been over, and he would have had food, if it had only been bread and water.“Oh dear! I can’t bear this any longer!” he said, suddenly jumping up. “We must get something to eat if it’s only nuts. Here, Pan, Pan!”He touched the boy with his foot, but it had no effect; and bending down, he took one arm and shook it.The effect was magical. Pan sat up, fending his face with his arm, and apostrophising some imaginary personage, as he fenced and complained.“Oh, don’t! I’ll never do so no more. Oh, please! Oh, I say! It hurts!—You, Master Syd?”“Yes; who did you think it was?”“My father with the rope’s-end and—oh, I say, I am so stiff and sore, and—have you got anything to eat?”Sydney shook his head despondingly.“I was waking you up to come and try and find some.”“There’s lots o’ rabbits about here,” grumbled Pan, “if we could catch some.”“Yes, and hares too, Pan, if we had a good gun. Come along.”They rambled along by the stream, finding before long a blackthorn laden with sloes, of which Pan ate two, and Sydney contented himself with half of one. Then they were voted a failure, and the blackberries growing in a sunny, open spot were tried with no better result.At the end of another quarter of an hour a clump of hazel stubs came in view—fine old nut-bearers, with thickly mossed stumps, among which grew clusters of light golden buff fungi looking like cups; but though these were good for food, in the eyes of the boys they were simply toadstools, and passed over for the sake of the fringed nuts which hung in twos and threes, even here and there in fours and fives.It did not take long to get a capful of these, and they soon sat down to make theiral frescomeal.Another disappointment! The nuts, as they cracked them, were, with a few exceptions, full of a blackish dust, and the exceptions contained in addition a poor watery embryo of a nut that was not worth the cracking to obtain.They gave up the food hunt in despair, for there was no cultivated land near, where a few turnips might have been obtained; and wandering slowly back they at last reached the road.The search had not been, though, without result—it had taken time; and when they reached the solitary road the sun was so near setting, that after a final protest from Pan, Syd started at once for home and the scenes they had to face.The route they had chosen for their flight was the most solitary leading from Southbayton. It was but little used, leading as it did right out into the forest, and in consequence they had it almost to themselves while the light lasted, and after dark they did not pass a soul as they made their way to the Heronry, under whose palings they stood at last to debate in whispers on the next step.Pan was for flight after they had been on into the town and bought some bread and cheese; but the position in which they were brought out Sydney’s best qualities.“No,” he said, “we’ve done wrong, and I’ll face it out.”“But I won’t—I can’t,” whimpered Pan. “How do I know as father isn’t waiting just inside the gate with that there bit of rope?”“You must, and you shall come back, Pan,” said Sydney, decisively. “It’s of no use to kick against it. Am I to hit you again?”“I d’ know,” whimpered Pan. “I’m the most miserable chap as ever was. Every one’s agen me. Even you knocks me about, and I didn’t think it of you, Master Syd—I didn’t; I thought you would be my friend.”“So I am, Pan, only you don’t know it. Come now, get up. Go in with me, and let’s walk straight in to the dining-room, and ask father to forgive us.”“I would ha’ done it at first,” whimpered Pan, “but I can’t now.”“Why?”“’Cause I’m so ’orrid hungry.”“Well, so am I. Father will give us plenty to eat as soon as he knows. Come along; it’s only a scolding.”“No, Master Syd, I dursen’t. You go and ask him to forgive you, and to order father not to hit me. P’r’aps I might be able to come then.”“You are the most horrid coward I ever knew,” cried Sydney, impatiently. “Do you think I don’t feel how terrible it is to go and tell father I’ve done wrong? I’d give anything to be able to run right away.”“Come along, can’t yer, Master Syd. Never mind being hungry; come on.”“No, Pan, I can’t. Now then, don’t try to sneak out of it. Come and face them, like a man.”“But I arn’t a man, Master Syd, and I can’t stir now. Oh dear! oh dear! what will father say?”“That I’ve got you at last,” roared a gruff voice. “Hi! I’ve got ’em—here they are!”
The day grew brighter; tiny flecks of orange and gold began to appear high up, then there was a warm glow in the east, with the birds chirping merrily in the woodlands, and then day began.
But as the morning brightened Syd’s spirits grew cloudy, and as they reached another patch of wood through which ran a little stream, he stopped short, looking anxiously along the road in both directions.
“We can’t go home like this, Pan,” he said. “It would be horrid.”
“Well, I don’t want to go home, do I?” grumbled the boy, in an ill-used tone.
“We shall have to hide here in the wood till night, and we can dry and clean our muddy clothes and have a good wash before then.”
“And what are we to get to eat?”
“Blackberries, and sloes, and nuts.”
“Oh yes, and pretty stuff they are. One apple off the big old tree’s worth all the lot here.”
“Can’t help it, Pan. We must do the best we can.”
“Don’t let’s go back, Master Syd. You can’t tell how rope’s-end hurts. Alter your mind, and let’s go and seek our fortunes somewhere.”
“This way,” said Syd, by way of answer; and pointing off the road, the two lads plunged farther and farther into the wood, keeping close to the little stream, which had cut its way deep down below the level; so that it was some time before they came to an open sandy spot, where, with the bright morning sun shining full upon them, they had a good refreshing wash; and soon after, as they sat in a sunny nook where the sand was deep and dry, first one and then the other nodded off to sleep.
It was late in the afternoon before Syd awoke, to look up anxiously about before the full force of his position dawned upon him; and feeling faint and more low-spirited than had ever been his lot before, he sat there thinking about what he had to go through.
As near as he could judge they were about five miles from the Heronry, and two hours before it grew dark would be ample time for their journey.
“I may as well let him sleep,” said Syd. “He’ll only want to go away, and we can’t do that.”
Then, in spite of his efforts to the contrary, his mind began to dwell upon home and the various meals. Just about dusk the dinner would be ready, and his father and uncle sitting down, while he—
“Oh, I do feel so hungry!” he muttered. “I’d give anything for some bread and cheese.”
He went to the side of the little stream, lay down, and placing his lips to the clear cool water, drank heartily a draught that was refreshing, but did not allay his hunger; and after sitting down and thinking for a time, he put his hands in his pockets and felt his money. But it was of no use out there in the woods.
He sat thinking again, wishing now that they had gone on in spite of their condition, for then the trouble would have been over, and he would have had food, if it had only been bread and water.
“Oh dear! I can’t bear this any longer!” he said, suddenly jumping up. “We must get something to eat if it’s only nuts. Here, Pan, Pan!”
He touched the boy with his foot, but it had no effect; and bending down, he took one arm and shook it.
The effect was magical. Pan sat up, fending his face with his arm, and apostrophising some imaginary personage, as he fenced and complained.
“Oh, don’t! I’ll never do so no more. Oh, please! Oh, I say! It hurts!—You, Master Syd?”
“Yes; who did you think it was?”
“My father with the rope’s-end and—oh, I say, I am so stiff and sore, and—have you got anything to eat?”
Sydney shook his head despondingly.
“I was waking you up to come and try and find some.”
“There’s lots o’ rabbits about here,” grumbled Pan, “if we could catch some.”
“Yes, and hares too, Pan, if we had a good gun. Come along.”
They rambled along by the stream, finding before long a blackthorn laden with sloes, of which Pan ate two, and Sydney contented himself with half of one. Then they were voted a failure, and the blackberries growing in a sunny, open spot were tried with no better result.
At the end of another quarter of an hour a clump of hazel stubs came in view—fine old nut-bearers, with thickly mossed stumps, among which grew clusters of light golden buff fungi looking like cups; but though these were good for food, in the eyes of the boys they were simply toadstools, and passed over for the sake of the fringed nuts which hung in twos and threes, even here and there in fours and fives.
It did not take long to get a capful of these, and they soon sat down to make theiral frescomeal.
Another disappointment! The nuts, as they cracked them, were, with a few exceptions, full of a blackish dust, and the exceptions contained in addition a poor watery embryo of a nut that was not worth the cracking to obtain.
They gave up the food hunt in despair, for there was no cultivated land near, where a few turnips might have been obtained; and wandering slowly back they at last reached the road.
The search had not been, though, without result—it had taken time; and when they reached the solitary road the sun was so near setting, that after a final protest from Pan, Syd started at once for home and the scenes they had to face.
The route they had chosen for their flight was the most solitary leading from Southbayton. It was but little used, leading as it did right out into the forest, and in consequence they had it almost to themselves while the light lasted, and after dark they did not pass a soul as they made their way to the Heronry, under whose palings they stood at last to debate in whispers on the next step.
Pan was for flight after they had been on into the town and bought some bread and cheese; but the position in which they were brought out Sydney’s best qualities.
“No,” he said, “we’ve done wrong, and I’ll face it out.”
“But I won’t—I can’t,” whimpered Pan. “How do I know as father isn’t waiting just inside the gate with that there bit of rope?”
“You must, and you shall come back, Pan,” said Sydney, decisively. “It’s of no use to kick against it. Am I to hit you again?”
“I d’ know,” whimpered Pan. “I’m the most miserable chap as ever was. Every one’s agen me. Even you knocks me about, and I didn’t think it of you, Master Syd—I didn’t; I thought you would be my friend.”
“So I am, Pan, only you don’t know it. Come now, get up. Go in with me, and let’s walk straight in to the dining-room, and ask father to forgive us.”
“I would ha’ done it at first,” whimpered Pan, “but I can’t now.”
“Why?”
“’Cause I’m so ’orrid hungry.”
“Well, so am I. Father will give us plenty to eat as soon as he knows. Come along; it’s only a scolding.”
“No, Master Syd, I dursen’t. You go and ask him to forgive you, and to order father not to hit me. P’r’aps I might be able to come then.”
“You are the most horrid coward I ever knew,” cried Sydney, impatiently. “Do you think I don’t feel how terrible it is to go and tell father I’ve done wrong? I’d give anything to be able to run right away.”
“Come along, can’t yer, Master Syd. Never mind being hungry; come on.”
“No, Pan, I can’t. Now then, don’t try to sneak out of it. Come and face them, like a man.”
“But I arn’t a man, Master Syd, and I can’t stir now. Oh dear! oh dear! what will father say?”
“That I’ve got you at last,” roared a gruff voice. “Hi! I’ve got ’em—here they are!”
Chapter Eight.Barney, the old gardener, had been round the garden that evening, and had paused thoughtfully close to the tree where he had had his adventure the night before; and as he went over the various phases of his little struggle and his fall, thinking out how he would have proceeded had he got hold of that boy again, he fancied he heard whispering.The fancy became certainty, and creeping inch by inch closer to the palings, without making a rustle among the shrubs, he soon made himself certain of who was on the other side.Barney’s face did not beam. It never had done so, but it brightened with a grin as he slowly and cautiously backed out of the shrubs on to the path, stepped across on to the grassy verge, and set off at a trot in true sailor fashion up the garden toward the house to give the alarm.“Nay, I won’t,” he said, as he neared the door. “They two may have cut and run again before I get them two old orsifers round outside. Sure to have gone, for the skipper goes along like a horse, while the admiral’s more like a helephant on his pins. Scare any two boys away, let alone them. Lor’, if I had on’y brought that there bit o’ rope!”But Barney had left it in his cottage; and as he reached the gate he stood to consider.“Now if I goes down here from the gate, they’ll hear me, and be scared away. I know—t’otherwise.”Chuckling to himself, he circumnavigated, as he would have called it, the park-like grounds of the Heronry, a task which necessitated the climbing of two high fences and the forcing a way through a dense quickset hedge.But these obstacles did not check the old sailor, who cleared the palings, reached the road at the other side, panting, stopped to get his breath, and then crept along through the darkness on the tips of his toes, treating the tall palings as if they were the bulwarks of a ship, and by degrees edged himself up nearer and nearer till he was able to pounce upon the fugitives in triumph.Pan uttered a howl, dropped down, and lay quite still; but as the ex-boatswain grappled Sydney by the coat, the lad wrenched himself free and kept his captor at bay.“No, no,” cried Barney; “you don’t get away. Hoi! help!”“Hold your noise, you old stupid,” cried Sydney. “Who wants to get away? Keep your hands off.”“Nay, I won’t. I’ve got you, and I’ll keep you.”“I tell you I was going home, only Pan wouldn’t stir.”“Wouldn’t stir, wouldn’t he? We’ll see ’bout that. Now it’s of no use, Master Syd. You’re my prisoner, so give in and cry quarter.”“I tell you I have given in; and once more, Barney, I warn you, I’m in such a temper I shall hit you.”“Yah! hit away, Midget, who’s afeard! Do you s’render?”“Yes, yes.”“Then you’re my prisoner.”“Nonsense! Make Pan come.”“Make him come? Yes, I just will, my lad. But, I say, to think o’ you two cutting yourselves adrift, and going off like that!”“Don’t talk so, but bring Pan along. You needn’t be afraid, I shall not try to go.”“Par—role, lad?”“Yes, parole,” said Sydney.“Ah, well, you are a gent, and I can trust you,” said Barney. “Now then,” he added, as he stirred up his son with the toe of his natty evening shoe; “get up.”“No, no, no,” whined Pan.“If you don’t get up I’ll kick you over the palings. Get up, you ugly young lubber, or I’ll—”“Oh!” Pan winced, and rose to his knees, eagerly scanning his father’s hands in the gloom to see if the rope’s-end was visible.“And, look here, Barney,” said Sydney, quietly, “you are not to hit Pan.”“Not what, my lad?”“You are not to rope’s-end him.”“Who says so?”“I do.”“Oh, you do, do you? Well, look here, my lad, he’s hurt my feelings so that I’m going to lock myself up with him in his bedroom, and then I’m going to skin him.”“Oh, oh!” cried Pan.“You are not going to touch him, but to bring him before my father.”“’Fore the skipper?” said Barney, in a puzzled voice. “Well, yes, my lad, he’s in full command. There is something in that.”“But you shouted, and said some one was coming. Who is it?”“Oh, that was only a manoofer, Master Syd, just to scare you into s’rending.”“Then there is no one coming?”“It’s par—role, mind.”“Yes, parole, of course.”“And you won’t try to cut and run again?”“No—no!” cried Sydney, impatiently.“No one. Now then you, Pan, my man, hyste yerself on them two legs o’ yourn. On’y you wait till I’m a-handlin’ that there bit o’ rope.”“You touch him if you dare!” cried Sydney. “My father will punish him.”“Oh, Master Syd!” cried Pan.“Hold your row, will you, you lubber,” growled Barney, seizing his son by the collar, setting him on his legs, and giving him a good shake at the same time.Pan uttered a low moan, and shuffling his feet along the gravel, allowed himself to be led towards the gate.Sydney shivered as he felt that he was approaching sentence.“Is my father in the dining-room?”“Yes, Master Sydney.—Here you, lift up them pretty hoofs o’ yours, will yer!”“Is my uncle with him?”“Yes, Master Syd.”“Have they been trying to find us?”“No, Master Syd. The skipper said as if you was such a young cur as to go and disgrace yourself like that ’ere by running away and desarting the King’s colours, he wouldn’t stir a step arter yer.”“Oh!” groaned Sydney to himself. Then in a whisper, “What did my uncle say?”“Said Amen to it, and that he’d been fool enough to give you the money to go with.”“No, no, Barney, I didn’t take his money.”“Ah, well, I don’t know nothing ’bout that. But here’s the gate. On you go first.”“No; go on first with Pan.”“And let you shoot off.”“Am I not on parole?”“Ay, ay. Forgetted that. Now then, you swab; on with you.”As Barney led the way towards the front door, Sydney noticed that there was a light in the dining-room, whose windows were open, the weather being still warm and fine.“Stop, Barney,” he said, after a sudden thought, “we’ll go in there through the window.”“Nay, my lad, nay,” said the boatswain; “it’ll look as if I was spellin’ arter a glass o’ wine.”“Never mind. I’ll go first, and you bring in Pan afterwards.”“Oh, Master Syd, don’t.”“Yah! you swab, be quiet!” said Barney, giving his unfortunate son another shake. “Wait till the admiral’s pronounced court-martial on you; and then—”He did not finish, but followed close behind Sydney, who drew a long breath, walked boldly up to the open French window, looked in a moment on where the two fine old veterans were sitting talking sadly together, and then stepped in.“What!” roared the admiral, rising from his chair, and oversetting his glass of port.“You here, sir!” cried Captain Belton. “Why have you come back?”“Because I’ve been thinking all night, father,” said Syd, quietly, “and I’ve found out I was a fool.”
Barney, the old gardener, had been round the garden that evening, and had paused thoughtfully close to the tree where he had had his adventure the night before; and as he went over the various phases of his little struggle and his fall, thinking out how he would have proceeded had he got hold of that boy again, he fancied he heard whispering.
The fancy became certainty, and creeping inch by inch closer to the palings, without making a rustle among the shrubs, he soon made himself certain of who was on the other side.
Barney’s face did not beam. It never had done so, but it brightened with a grin as he slowly and cautiously backed out of the shrubs on to the path, stepped across on to the grassy verge, and set off at a trot in true sailor fashion up the garden toward the house to give the alarm.
“Nay, I won’t,” he said, as he neared the door. “They two may have cut and run again before I get them two old orsifers round outside. Sure to have gone, for the skipper goes along like a horse, while the admiral’s more like a helephant on his pins. Scare any two boys away, let alone them. Lor’, if I had on’y brought that there bit o’ rope!”
But Barney had left it in his cottage; and as he reached the gate he stood to consider.
“Now if I goes down here from the gate, they’ll hear me, and be scared away. I know—t’otherwise.”
Chuckling to himself, he circumnavigated, as he would have called it, the park-like grounds of the Heronry, a task which necessitated the climbing of two high fences and the forcing a way through a dense quickset hedge.
But these obstacles did not check the old sailor, who cleared the palings, reached the road at the other side, panting, stopped to get his breath, and then crept along through the darkness on the tips of his toes, treating the tall palings as if they were the bulwarks of a ship, and by degrees edged himself up nearer and nearer till he was able to pounce upon the fugitives in triumph.
Pan uttered a howl, dropped down, and lay quite still; but as the ex-boatswain grappled Sydney by the coat, the lad wrenched himself free and kept his captor at bay.
“No, no,” cried Barney; “you don’t get away. Hoi! help!”
“Hold your noise, you old stupid,” cried Sydney. “Who wants to get away? Keep your hands off.”
“Nay, I won’t. I’ve got you, and I’ll keep you.”
“I tell you I was going home, only Pan wouldn’t stir.”
“Wouldn’t stir, wouldn’t he? We’ll see ’bout that. Now it’s of no use, Master Syd. You’re my prisoner, so give in and cry quarter.”
“I tell you I have given in; and once more, Barney, I warn you, I’m in such a temper I shall hit you.”
“Yah! hit away, Midget, who’s afeard! Do you s’render?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Then you’re my prisoner.”
“Nonsense! Make Pan come.”
“Make him come? Yes, I just will, my lad. But, I say, to think o’ you two cutting yourselves adrift, and going off like that!”
“Don’t talk so, but bring Pan along. You needn’t be afraid, I shall not try to go.”
“Par—role, lad?”
“Yes, parole,” said Sydney.
“Ah, well, you are a gent, and I can trust you,” said Barney. “Now then,” he added, as he stirred up his son with the toe of his natty evening shoe; “get up.”
“No, no, no,” whined Pan.
“If you don’t get up I’ll kick you over the palings. Get up, you ugly young lubber, or I’ll—”
“Oh!” Pan winced, and rose to his knees, eagerly scanning his father’s hands in the gloom to see if the rope’s-end was visible.
“And, look here, Barney,” said Sydney, quietly, “you are not to hit Pan.”
“Not what, my lad?”
“You are not to rope’s-end him.”
“Who says so?”
“I do.”
“Oh, you do, do you? Well, look here, my lad, he’s hurt my feelings so that I’m going to lock myself up with him in his bedroom, and then I’m going to skin him.”
“Oh, oh!” cried Pan.
“You are not going to touch him, but to bring him before my father.”
“’Fore the skipper?” said Barney, in a puzzled voice. “Well, yes, my lad, he’s in full command. There is something in that.”
“But you shouted, and said some one was coming. Who is it?”
“Oh, that was only a manoofer, Master Syd, just to scare you into s’rending.”
“Then there is no one coming?”
“It’s par—role, mind.”
“Yes, parole, of course.”
“And you won’t try to cut and run again?”
“No—no!” cried Sydney, impatiently.
“No one. Now then you, Pan, my man, hyste yerself on them two legs o’ yourn. On’y you wait till I’m a-handlin’ that there bit o’ rope.”
“You touch him if you dare!” cried Sydney. “My father will punish him.”
“Oh, Master Syd!” cried Pan.
“Hold your row, will you, you lubber,” growled Barney, seizing his son by the collar, setting him on his legs, and giving him a good shake at the same time.
Pan uttered a low moan, and shuffling his feet along the gravel, allowed himself to be led towards the gate.
Sydney shivered as he felt that he was approaching sentence.
“Is my father in the dining-room?”
“Yes, Master Sydney.—Here you, lift up them pretty hoofs o’ yours, will yer!”
“Is my uncle with him?”
“Yes, Master Syd.”
“Have they been trying to find us?”
“No, Master Syd. The skipper said as if you was such a young cur as to go and disgrace yourself like that ’ere by running away and desarting the King’s colours, he wouldn’t stir a step arter yer.”
“Oh!” groaned Sydney to himself. Then in a whisper, “What did my uncle say?”
“Said Amen to it, and that he’d been fool enough to give you the money to go with.”
“No, no, Barney, I didn’t take his money.”
“Ah, well, I don’t know nothing ’bout that. But here’s the gate. On you go first.”
“No; go on first with Pan.”
“And let you shoot off.”
“Am I not on parole?”
“Ay, ay. Forgetted that. Now then, you swab; on with you.”
As Barney led the way towards the front door, Sydney noticed that there was a light in the dining-room, whose windows were open, the weather being still warm and fine.
“Stop, Barney,” he said, after a sudden thought, “we’ll go in there through the window.”
“Nay, my lad, nay,” said the boatswain; “it’ll look as if I was spellin’ arter a glass o’ wine.”
“Never mind. I’ll go first, and you bring in Pan afterwards.”
“Oh, Master Syd, don’t.”
“Yah! you swab, be quiet!” said Barney, giving his unfortunate son another shake. “Wait till the admiral’s pronounced court-martial on you; and then—”
He did not finish, but followed close behind Sydney, who drew a long breath, walked boldly up to the open French window, looked in a moment on where the two fine old veterans were sitting talking sadly together, and then stepped in.
“What!” roared the admiral, rising from his chair, and oversetting his glass of port.
“You here, sir!” cried Captain Belton. “Why have you come back?”
“Because I’ve been thinking all night, father,” said Syd, quietly, “and I’ve found out I was a fool.”
Chapter Nine.There was a dead silence in the dining-room at the Heronry for some time, during which Syd stood with his head erect gazing at his father, who was erect by the table as he might have stood in old times upon his quarter-deck with some mutineer before him; the admiral dropped back into his arm-chair, stared from one to the other as if astounded by his nephew’s declaration, while the light shone full upon Syd, who looked pale, shabby, and dirty, but with a frank daring in his face which kept the two old men silent.In the background close to the window stood Barney, with all his old training manifest in his attitude—that of a petty officer in charge of a prisoner; for that was the character which his son occupied just then in his eyes. His gardening was, for the time being, forgotten, and he felt that he was in the presence of his commanding officer, not of the master whom he served.The painful silence was broken by Pan, to whom all this was awe-inspiring. For the moment he forgot all about ropes’-ends, and worked himself up into the belief that he would be sentenced to some terrible punishment. He fidgeted about, breathed hard, looked appealingly from the captain to the admiral and back again, and at last, unable to contain himself longer, he burst forth into a long and piteous howl, dropping down upon his knees, and from that attitude would have thrown himself prone, had not Barney tightened his hold upon his collar and shaken him up into a kneeling position again.“Stow that!” he growled, as the admiral seized the port wine decanter as if to throw at the boy, but altered his mind and poured himself out a glass instead.Then the terrible silence began again, and lasted till the captain turned to his brother. But he did not speak, and after a few moments longer Sir Thomas exclaimed—“You young dog! spent all the money you got out of me, and now you’ve sneaked back.”“I haven’t, uncle,” cried Syd, indignantly. “I didn’t take it. It’s on the table in my room.”This seemed to unlock Captain Belton’s lips.“Well, sir, now you have come back, what do you want?” he said.“I’ve told you, father. I’ve been wrong, and want you to forgive me.”“No, sir: you deserted; and now you come crawling back and want to go on as before. Can’t trust you again. Go and be a doctor.”“Will you hold up!” growled Barney, fiercely, as he shook his son, who seemed to want to burrow down out of sight through the carpet.“Oh, father!” began Syd. But he was stopped by his uncle.“Hold your tongue, sir! Court hasn’t called upon you for your defence. Look here, Harry, put the prisoners back while we talk it over.”“Yes,” said the captain, coldly, “you can go to your room, sir, and wait till your uncle and I have decided what steps we shall take.”“Yes, sir, confound you! and go and wash your dirty face,” said Sir Thomas, fiercely; “you look a disgrace to your name.”“As for your boy, Strake, take him and punish him well.”“Ay, ay, sir!” growled Barney, with alacrity; but his voice was almost drowned by a howl of misery from Pan—a cry that was checked by his father’s fierce grip.“Like me to do down Master Syd same time, sir?” whispered the ex-boatswain.“No, father, don’t let him be punished,” said Sydney, quickly. “I made him come back.”“Yes, sir, he did, he did,” cried Pan, eagerly. “You did; didn’t you, Master Syd?”“And I promised him he should not be punished.”“Yes, sir, he did, or else I wouldn’t have come back.”“What!” roared the admiral, in a tone which made Pan shrink into himself. “And look here, sir,” he continued, turning to his nephew, “who made you first in command with your promises?”“Don’t let him be flogged, father,” pleaded Syd. “I’m to blame about him. I did promise him that if he would come back he should not be punished.”“Take your boy home, Strake, and bring him here to-morrow morning,” said the captain, sternly. “He is not to be flogged till he has made his defence.”“Ay, ay, sir!” growled the old boatswain; and pulling an imaginary forelock, he hauled Pan out of the room, their passage down the path towards the gardener’s cottage being accompanied by a deep growling noise which gradually died away.“Well, sir,” said the captain, coldly, “you heard what I said.”Syd looked from one to the other appealingly, feeling that as he had humbly confessed he was in the wrong, he ought to be treated with more leniency, but his uncle averted his gaze, and his father merely pointed to the door, through which, faint, weary, and despondent, the boy went out into the hall, while the two old men seemed to be listening till he had gone up-stairs.“A miserable, mean-spirited young scoundrel!” said Captain Belton, angrily, but his face grew less stern directly, as he saw his brother throw himself back in his chair, to laugh silently till he was nearly purple.“Oh, dear me!” he panted at last, “nearly given me a fit. What a dirty, miserable object he looked!”“Disgraceful, Tom!” said the captain. “Now, then, what would you do with the young dog? Send him off to some school for a couple of years?”“No,” said the admiral, quietly.“I don’t like thrashing the boy.”“Of course not, Harry.”“But I must punish him.”“What for?”“What for? Disobedience. This mad escapade—”“Bah!”“Tom?”“I saidBah! Punish him? Why, look at the boy. Hasn’t he punished himself enough? Why, Harry, we were boys once, and precious far from perfect, eh? I say, I don’t think either of us would have had the courage to have faced our old dad and confessed like that.”“Humph! perhaps not, Tom.”“No perhaps about it, dear old boy.”“But I must punish him.”“No, you mustn’t. I won’t have him punished. I like the young dog’s spirit. We said he should go to sea. He said he didn’t want to go, and sooner than do what he didn’t like he cut and run, till he found out he was making a fool of himself, and when he did find it out he came and said so like a man.”“Well, yes,” said the captain, “he did confess, but this must not be passed over lightly.”“Bah! Tchah! Pah! let it be. You see if he don’t come the humble to-morrow morning, and want us to let him go to sea.”“Think so?”“Sure of it, my dear boy. I’m not angry with him a bit. He showed that he had some spirit in running away.”“And that he was a cur in sneaking back.”“Steady there,” cried the admiral, “nothing of the kind. I say it took more pluck to come back and face us, and own he was in the wrong, than to run away.”The captain sat slowly sipping his port, and the subject was discussed no more.Then at last bedtime came.Syd was seated in his room alone. He had washed and changed his clothes, expecting moment by moment to be summoned to hear his fate, but the hours had passed, and he was sick and faint with hunger and exhaustion.As he sat there he heard the various familiar noises in the house, each of which told him what was going on. He recognised the jingling of glasses on a wooden tray, which he knew meant the butler clearing the dining-room. He heard the closing of the library door. Then there was a long silence, followed by the rattling of shutters, the shooting of bolts, the noise made by bars, and after another lapse, the murmur of deep voices in the hall, the clink of silver candlesticks on the marble slab, and a deep cough.“They’re gone up to bed,” said Sydney to himself, and wearily thinking that he would not be spoken to, and that he had better patiently try to forget his hunger in sleep, so as to be ready for the painful interview of the morning, he rose to undress.But he did not begin. He stood thinking about the events of the past twenty-four hours, and like many another, felt that he would have given anything to recall the past.For he was very miserable, and his misery found vent once more as he was asking himself what would be his fate in the world.“Yes, I’ve behaved like a wretched, thoughtless fool.”“Pst! Syd!”He started and looked round, to see that the door had been slightly opened, and that his uncle’s great red face was thrust into the room.“Yes, sir,” he faltered—he dared not say, “Yes, uncle.”“Had anything to eat?” whispered the old admiral.“No, sir.”The door closed, and the boy’s spirits rose a little, for with all his fierceness it was evident that the old admiral was kindly disposed. But his spirits went down again. Uncle Tom was only a visitor, and his father was horribly stern and harsh. His voice had thrilled the boy, who again and again had wondered what was to be his fate.“I’ll tell uncle how sorry I am, and ask him to side with me,” thought Sydney; and he had just made up his mind to speak to him if he came again, and surely he would after coming to ask him about the food, when the door-handle rattled slightly, and the boy involuntarily turned to meet his uncle just as the door was pressed open a little, and he found himself face to face with his father, who remained perfectly silent for a few moments as Syd shrank away.“Hungry, my lad?” he said at last.“Yes, father—very.”“Hah!”The door closed, and the prisoner was left once more to his own thoughts.
There was a dead silence in the dining-room at the Heronry for some time, during which Syd stood with his head erect gazing at his father, who was erect by the table as he might have stood in old times upon his quarter-deck with some mutineer before him; the admiral dropped back into his arm-chair, stared from one to the other as if astounded by his nephew’s declaration, while the light shone full upon Syd, who looked pale, shabby, and dirty, but with a frank daring in his face which kept the two old men silent.
In the background close to the window stood Barney, with all his old training manifest in his attitude—that of a petty officer in charge of a prisoner; for that was the character which his son occupied just then in his eyes. His gardening was, for the time being, forgotten, and he felt that he was in the presence of his commanding officer, not of the master whom he served.
The painful silence was broken by Pan, to whom all this was awe-inspiring. For the moment he forgot all about ropes’-ends, and worked himself up into the belief that he would be sentenced to some terrible punishment. He fidgeted about, breathed hard, looked appealingly from the captain to the admiral and back again, and at last, unable to contain himself longer, he burst forth into a long and piteous howl, dropping down upon his knees, and from that attitude would have thrown himself prone, had not Barney tightened his hold upon his collar and shaken him up into a kneeling position again.
“Stow that!” he growled, as the admiral seized the port wine decanter as if to throw at the boy, but altered his mind and poured himself out a glass instead.
Then the terrible silence began again, and lasted till the captain turned to his brother. But he did not speak, and after a few moments longer Sir Thomas exclaimed—
“You young dog! spent all the money you got out of me, and now you’ve sneaked back.”
“I haven’t, uncle,” cried Syd, indignantly. “I didn’t take it. It’s on the table in my room.”
This seemed to unlock Captain Belton’s lips.
“Well, sir, now you have come back, what do you want?” he said.
“I’ve told you, father. I’ve been wrong, and want you to forgive me.”
“No, sir: you deserted; and now you come crawling back and want to go on as before. Can’t trust you again. Go and be a doctor.”
“Will you hold up!” growled Barney, fiercely, as he shook his son, who seemed to want to burrow down out of sight through the carpet.
“Oh, father!” began Syd. But he was stopped by his uncle.
“Hold your tongue, sir! Court hasn’t called upon you for your defence. Look here, Harry, put the prisoners back while we talk it over.”
“Yes,” said the captain, coldly, “you can go to your room, sir, and wait till your uncle and I have decided what steps we shall take.”
“Yes, sir, confound you! and go and wash your dirty face,” said Sir Thomas, fiercely; “you look a disgrace to your name.”
“As for your boy, Strake, take him and punish him well.”
“Ay, ay, sir!” growled Barney, with alacrity; but his voice was almost drowned by a howl of misery from Pan—a cry that was checked by his father’s fierce grip.
“Like me to do down Master Syd same time, sir?” whispered the ex-boatswain.
“No, father, don’t let him be punished,” said Sydney, quickly. “I made him come back.”
“Yes, sir, he did, he did,” cried Pan, eagerly. “You did; didn’t you, Master Syd?”
“And I promised him he should not be punished.”
“Yes, sir, he did, or else I wouldn’t have come back.”
“What!” roared the admiral, in a tone which made Pan shrink into himself. “And look here, sir,” he continued, turning to his nephew, “who made you first in command with your promises?”
“Don’t let him be flogged, father,” pleaded Syd. “I’m to blame about him. I did promise him that if he would come back he should not be punished.”
“Take your boy home, Strake, and bring him here to-morrow morning,” said the captain, sternly. “He is not to be flogged till he has made his defence.”
“Ay, ay, sir!” growled the old boatswain; and pulling an imaginary forelock, he hauled Pan out of the room, their passage down the path towards the gardener’s cottage being accompanied by a deep growling noise which gradually died away.
“Well, sir,” said the captain, coldly, “you heard what I said.”
Syd looked from one to the other appealingly, feeling that as he had humbly confessed he was in the wrong, he ought to be treated with more leniency, but his uncle averted his gaze, and his father merely pointed to the door, through which, faint, weary, and despondent, the boy went out into the hall, while the two old men seemed to be listening till he had gone up-stairs.
“A miserable, mean-spirited young scoundrel!” said Captain Belton, angrily, but his face grew less stern directly, as he saw his brother throw himself back in his chair, to laugh silently till he was nearly purple.
“Oh, dear me!” he panted at last, “nearly given me a fit. What a dirty, miserable object he looked!”
“Disgraceful, Tom!” said the captain. “Now, then, what would you do with the young dog? Send him off to some school for a couple of years?”
“No,” said the admiral, quietly.
“I don’t like thrashing the boy.”
“Of course not, Harry.”
“But I must punish him.”
“What for?”
“What for? Disobedience. This mad escapade—”
“Bah!”
“Tom?”
“I saidBah! Punish him? Why, look at the boy. Hasn’t he punished himself enough? Why, Harry, we were boys once, and precious far from perfect, eh? I say, I don’t think either of us would have had the courage to have faced our old dad and confessed like that.”
“Humph! perhaps not, Tom.”
“No perhaps about it, dear old boy.”
“But I must punish him.”
“No, you mustn’t. I won’t have him punished. I like the young dog’s spirit. We said he should go to sea. He said he didn’t want to go, and sooner than do what he didn’t like he cut and run, till he found out he was making a fool of himself, and when he did find it out he came and said so like a man.”
“Well, yes,” said the captain, “he did confess, but this must not be passed over lightly.”
“Bah! Tchah! Pah! let it be. You see if he don’t come the humble to-morrow morning, and want us to let him go to sea.”
“Think so?”
“Sure of it, my dear boy. I’m not angry with him a bit. He showed that he had some spirit in running away.”
“And that he was a cur in sneaking back.”
“Steady there,” cried the admiral, “nothing of the kind. I say it took more pluck to come back and face us, and own he was in the wrong, than to run away.”
The captain sat slowly sipping his port, and the subject was discussed no more.
Then at last bedtime came.
Syd was seated in his room alone. He had washed and changed his clothes, expecting moment by moment to be summoned to hear his fate, but the hours had passed, and he was sick and faint with hunger and exhaustion.
As he sat there he heard the various familiar noises in the house, each of which told him what was going on. He recognised the jingling of glasses on a wooden tray, which he knew meant the butler clearing the dining-room. He heard the closing of the library door. Then there was a long silence, followed by the rattling of shutters, the shooting of bolts, the noise made by bars, and after another lapse, the murmur of deep voices in the hall, the clink of silver candlesticks on the marble slab, and a deep cough.
“They’re gone up to bed,” said Sydney to himself, and wearily thinking that he would not be spoken to, and that he had better patiently try to forget his hunger in sleep, so as to be ready for the painful interview of the morning, he rose to undress.
But he did not begin. He stood thinking about the events of the past twenty-four hours, and like many another, felt that he would have given anything to recall the past.
For he was very miserable, and his misery found vent once more as he was asking himself what would be his fate in the world.
“Yes, I’ve behaved like a wretched, thoughtless fool.”
“Pst! Syd!”
He started and looked round, to see that the door had been slightly opened, and that his uncle’s great red face was thrust into the room.
“Yes, sir,” he faltered—he dared not say, “Yes, uncle.”
“Had anything to eat?” whispered the old admiral.
“No, sir.”
The door closed, and the boy’s spirits rose a little, for with all his fierceness it was evident that the old admiral was kindly disposed. But his spirits went down again. Uncle Tom was only a visitor, and his father was horribly stern and harsh. His voice had thrilled the boy, who again and again had wondered what was to be his fate.
“I’ll tell uncle how sorry I am, and ask him to side with me,” thought Sydney; and he had just made up his mind to speak to him if he came again, and surely he would after coming to ask him about the food, when the door-handle rattled slightly, and the boy involuntarily turned to meet his uncle just as the door was pressed open a little, and he found himself face to face with his father, who remained perfectly silent for a few moments as Syd shrank away.
“Hungry, my lad?” he said at last.
“Yes, father—very.”
“Hah!”
The door closed, and the prisoner was left once more to his own thoughts.