“Don't do that, Frank,” said Hamilton; “I'll give you some trouble yet with my new one.”
“If that gets it, so much the better,” said Frank, “and I dare say it will; but you all hear—my mind is made up—I won't have a prize for this poem unless it is gained over Hamilton's first.”
“How came the doctor to begin this rigmarole?” asked Salisbury.
Frank blushed, and replied, with a conscious laugh: “I did an abominably foolish thing last night, in dipping all the bed-room candles that were standing in the pantry, into a tempting basin of water; and Mrs. Guppy was malicious because the candles sputtered and wouldn't light, and, as usual, determined that I had done it; and Fudge taxed me with it this morning.”
“I wish,” said Hamilton, emphatically, “I could discover the author of this shameful piece of business. It was vexatious enough in the first place, but this is painful to us all. Frank, every one knows you.”
“Doctor best of all,” put in Frank.
“I will give myself up to discovering who has done it,” said Hamilton.
“You had better give yourself up to finishing your poem,” said Reginald; “for it's my humble opinion if you haven't found it now, your eyes won't discover the clue, if you were Argus himself.”
The others then began a rather noisy debate on the impropriety of their master's behavior; and little Alfred, finding his brother was not speaking, ventured to remind him of his promise. Contrary to his usual habit, Hamilton turned quite crossly to him:
“What an idle fellow you are! Why don't you get Lemprière and find them out for yourself?—you ought not to be beginning now.”