“My father will come and fetch me.” The old man shook his head.
“He is with his regiment, my child, and could not come away.”
The old man stopped short, for the door was suddenly thrown open, and a big, heavy-looking boy of seventeen or eighteen came hurriedly in.
“Some one wants you, Uncle Martin,” he cried.
“Yes, quite right,” came in a sharp, short, military tone. “That will do, my young friend. Thanks.”
The speaker, a tall bronzed personage in plain clothes, strode into the room, held the door open, and signed to the big lad to pass out, which he did slowly and unwillingly, but not before he had heard Phil utter the one word, “Father!” as he sprang forward to fling his arms round the visitor’s waist.
“My boy!” was the response. Then to the Doctor, “That’s unlucky! But that boy does not understand English?”
The Doctor shook his head.
“I am afraid he does, quite well enough to grasp who you are.”
“Tut! tut! tut!” ejaculated the visitor. “But tell me; are there any troops near here?”