Queenie saw at a glance that it would be hopeless to expect him to speak until he had satisfied his hunger. She sat down upon the bed also, nibbled at a date, and tried to hazard a guess as to what could possibly have happened.
Phil was the youngest of the boys, and had not yet gone to Eton, being still at a preparatory school. He was nearly thirteen, and in September he was to join his brothers, and become a public schoolboy, which was the summit of his present ambition; this therefore was his last term at Dr. Steele’s school, where all the Arbuthnot boys had received their early education; and what made him suddenly turn up at home, when the first month of term-time had not expired, was more than his little sister could imagine. She knew he always professed to hate Dr. Steele’s establishment; but by his own account he always managed to have plenty of fun there.
Phil was not long in making away with all the good things his sister had brought him. When the last mouthful had been consumed, he heaved a sigh and said,—
“Ah, now I feel rather better; but I’ve had no dinner, and hardly any breakfast. Queenie, you’ll have to hide me somewhere for a few days, and feed me secretly, like people used to do in the olden times. I’m a fugitive, you know, in peril of my life.”
Queenie’s eyes dilated slowly.
“Oh, Phil!” she said, in awestruck tones; “what have you done?”
“I’ve run away,” he answered, the gravity of his face belied by the mirthful twinkle of his eye,—“I’ve run away, Queenie, to save Dr. Steele the pain and trouble of sending me away.”
“Oh!” breathed Queenie, her mouth growing as round as her eyes as she began to understand a little. She had often heard it said that Phil would undoubtedly be expelled some day, if he could not conquer his predilection for playing pranks, and she had secretly wished that he might. “So you have been getting into a row, have you, Phil?”
She spoke in an eager whisper, for she delighted in Phil’s natural bias towards mischief and bravado. She never felt more entirely proud of her brother than when listening to accounts of his reckless disregard for rules and his calm defiance when detected. I am afraid Queenie is not the only little girl in existence who shares in this admiration for lawlessness and mischief; and perhaps those of us who have not grown too old to remember how we felt when we were young may understand this naughty feeling, and perhaps sympathize a little with it. After all, if boys never got into mischief, the nursery would be a duller place than it is; and so long as they can be manly and truthful and honest with it all, it is not so very hard to forgive a little “kicking over the traces,” which is common and natural to two-legged as well as four-footed creatures, when first they begin to run in harness. As a rule, they do no great harm, and steady down to the collar in due time.
“Do tell me all about it, Phil,” pleaded Queenie, very eagerly. “Have you got into a very bad row this time?”