The grip was but momentary, and the boy stood like a rock.
“Well,” said the stranger again, “why didn’t you cry out?”
“Because I would not,” replied the boy, frowning.
“Shake hands.”
Fred tried to hold back, but the command was so imperious, and the firm, sinewy hand before his face seemed to draw him, and he laid his own within it, to feel the fingers close in a warm but gentle grasp, the pressure being firm and kindly; and in place of the fierce look a pleasant, winning expression came into the visitor’s countenance, while the left hand was now clapped upon the boy’s shoulder, and closed in a pressure as agreeable as the other was harsh.
“Glad to know you, my lad. That’s frank and manly of you. The right stuff in him, Mistress Forrester. He’ll make a good man, colonel. Well?”
“I didn’t speak, sir,” said Fred, in answer to the question and look.
“That’s right, too. Don’t be in too great a hurry to speak,” said the visitor; and somehow, to his own astonishment, Fred felt himself drawn toward this imperious personage, who seemed to take command of every one in the place. “Well, Forrester, you’ll make a soldier of him.”
“I—”
The hesitatingly spoken pronoun came from Mistress Forrester, who seemed checked by the guest’s quick look of reproof.