“I wasn’t resisting her, father. She told me I was telling lies—and I’m not. You did sing it. I heard you; and it isn’t wicked—and she didn’t ought to say it was. I don’t tell lies. I never did. It isn’t lies—it’s only about them!”
The Colonel held up his hand to command silence.
“What does all this mean?” he asked, turning to nurse.
“If you please, sir, I heard Master Syd singing something that didn’t sound right for a young gentleman, and when I told him I wouldn’t have wicked words sung, he turned and said that he’d heard you sing them, which I was quite sure was not true, and I told him so. And then he went off into one of his tantrums—which I hoped he was learning to get better of—and that’s all I know about it. But I am quite sure he is not speaking the truth.”
“Leave him to me and I will get at the rights of the matter,” said the Colonel; and nurse, who had an ailing baby indoors (Squib’s little brother who shortly afterwards died), was glad to go in to see after him, leaving Squib and his father to settle things together about the song.
“Now, Squib,” said Colonel Rutland, with grave severity of manner, “let me hear the whole truth of this from you. What is it you were singing? Don’t be afraid to speak the truth.”
“I’m not afraid a bit!” cried Squib, after his habitual pause. “I’ll sing it to you now. You’ll know it—it’s your own song,” and taking a deep breath and swelling himself out in unconscious imitation of a singer about to commence his song, the child broke out with the following words, sung in a deep voice as like that of a man as he could achieve—
“Fi-ive del dies—
The father of lies!”
And then suddenly breaking off he looked up at his father and cried,—