The young man made no answer, but smiled coldly, as he shook the sapling with a vigor that made the air whistle around him. Then he walked on, polishing up the knots daintily with his knife as he moved.
"More'n that," continued the old man, eying his son wistfully; "there isn't toughness enough there for a walking-stick, which should be something to lean on."
"It'll do," answered Dick, closing his knife, and thrusting it deep into his pocket. "It'll do, for want of a better."
"Ha, ha," laughed the old man, so hoarsely that his voice seemed to break into a timid bark. "That was what I used ter say when you were a lad, and I made you cut sticks to be lathered with. Many a time the twig that you brought wouldn't hurt a dormouse. Ah, lad, lad, you were always a cunning one."
"Was I?" said Dick. "Well, beating begets cunning, I dare say."
By this time they were getting into the thick of the wilderness, a portion of the park little frequented, and in which the lonely lake we have spoken of lay like a pool of ink, the shadows fell so blackly upon it.
Here Richard verged out of the usual path, and struck through the most gloomy portion of the woods. After a moment's hesitation, the old man followed him, muttering that the other path was nearest, but that did not matter.
When the two had left the lake behind them, Richard stopped, and wheeling suddenly around, faced his father.
"Now, once for all, tell me what took you to 'The Rest' this morning; for, mark me, I'm bound to know."
"I—I have told ye once, Dick. I have—"