“Go on, Colonel. Give it to me,” growled Ike. “I desarve it.”
“No,” said Sir Francis, smiling; “not another word; but don’t let it occur again.”
Ike drew his right hand across one eye, and the left over the other, and gave each a flip as if to shake off a tear, as he growled something about “never no more.”
I hardly heard him, though, for I was trembling with agitation as I saw Sir Francis turn to me, and I knew that my turn had come.
“Grant, my lad,” he said quietly; “I can’t tell you how hurt and sorry I felt to-night when I believed you to be mixed up with that contemptible bit of filching. There is an abundance of fruit grown here, and I should never grudge you sharing in that which you help to produce. I was the more sorry because I have been watching your progress, and I was more than satisfied: I beg your pardon too, for all that I have said. Those boys shall beg it too.”
He held out his hand, and I caught it eagerly in mine as I said, in choking tones.
“My father was an officer and a gentleman, sir, and to be called a thief was very hard to bear.”
“It was, my lad; it was,” he said, shaking my hand warmly. “There, there, I’ll talk to you another time.”
I drew back, and we were leaving the room, I last, when, obeying an impulse, I ran back.
“Well, my lad?” he said kindly.