Next day uncle and nephew had estate business to occupy them; "their work," Mr. Francis gaily declared, 'twould, like topmost Jargarus, take the morning, and Geoffrey was given a dog and a keeper and a gun to amuse himself till lunch time. He wanted nothing better, and soon after breakfast he was off and away for all he could find in wood and hedgerow. The stubbles only and the small brown bird were dedicated for to-morrow.
Mr. Francis and Harry worked on till one, but on the striking of that hour the latter revolted.
"I can't go on any more," he said. "I simply can't. Come out till lunch, Uncle Francis; it is only an hour."
Mr. Francis smiled and shook his head.
"Not to-day, dear boy," he replied; "there is this packet of letters I have to get through before the post. But do you get out, Harry, and sweep the cobwebs away."
Harry stood up, stretching himself after the long session.
"Cobwebs—what cobwebs?" he asked.
"Those in your curly head."
"There are no such cobwebs. O Uncle Francis, as we are talking of cobwebs, I want to get that summerhouse on the knoll put in order—the one close to the ice house, I mean. Have you the keys? By the way, which is which?"
Mr. Francis was writing, and, as Harry spoke, though he did not look up, his pen ceased travelling.