“Why, of course, stupid.”
“Ah, you don’t understand, Master Fred. It isn’t every day that a gardener has to carry despatches. And then he said, as he give me the answer, ‘Well, you say you are a gardener, don’t let the grass grow under your feet.’ I didn’t, Master Fred. Ask Dodder.”
“No need to ask him, poor old fellow,” said Fred, patting his favourite’s neck.
“Fred!” came from the road.
“Yes, father,” cried the boy, and he ran back.
“I thought you were by me, my boy,” said the colonel, gravely, as he laid one hand upon his son’s shoulder, and held the despatch in the other, gazing thoughtfully before him toward the old house they were approaching.
“I hope you have not had bad news, father,” hazarded Fred.
“No, on the whole, good. It must come—it must come.”
Fred looked at him inquiringly.
“What are you, Fred—sixteen, isn’t it?”