“Hush, hush, Bobus,” put in his mother, “no matter about that. The question is what is to be done about poor Mr. Richards and Alfred.”
“Write a poetical letter,” said Allen, beginning to extemporise in Hiawatha measure.
“O thou mighty man of money,
Barnes, of Belforest, Esquire,
Innocent is Alfred Richards;
Innocent his honest father;
Innocent as unborn baby
Of development of Midas,
Of the smearing of the Cupid,
Of the fracture of the goose-bill,
Of the writing of the mottoes.
All the Brownlows of St. Kenelm’s,
From the Folly and from Kencroft.
Robert, the aspiring soldier,
Robert, too, the sucking chemist,
John, the Skipjack full of mischief,
John, the great originator,
Allen, the—”
“Allen the uncommon gaby,” broke in Bobus. “Come, don’t waste time, something must be done.”
“Yes, a rational letter must be written and signed by you all,” said his mother. “The question is whether it would be better to do it through your uncle or Mr. Ogilvie.”
“I don’t see why my father should hear of it, or Mr. Ogilvie either,” growled Rob. “I didn’t do those donkeyfied ears.”
“You did the writing, which was five hundred times more donkeyfied,” said Jock.
“It is quite impossible to keep either of them in ignorance,” said Caroline.
“Yes,” repeated all her own three; Jock adding “Father would have known it as soon as you, and I don’t see that my uncle is much worse.”
“He ain’t so soft,” exclaimed Johnny, roused to loyal defence of his parent.