“Yes, uncle.”
“What have you been doing?”
“Oh, Charles, pray—pray—” cried my mother.
“Hush,” he said, holding up his hand. “Now, sir, speak out.”
“Really, my dear Charley—” cried the General.
“Allow me, please, sir,” said my uncle; and I caught sight of the Doctor raising his hand and making a sign to my mother, as he placed a chair for her, an act of politeness needed, for she was turning faint. “Now, sir, speak out—the simple facts, please. What have you been doing?”
“Rabbiting with a ferret, uncle, us two, and this gentleman and Bob Hopley came and caught us.”
“Rabbiting—poaching?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” cried the General. “A mere nothing, my dear madam. The boys were certainly on my grounds watching a poaching scoundrel, and I—yes, I thought I’d say a word to the Doctor. Bad company for him, a poacher—eh, my dear Charley?”
“Yes, rather,” said my uncle dryly.