“Of course. It will be best for you—and for your son.”
“They only stored cargoes up at Sir Risdon’s because it was handy, sir, and then took them on afterwards to the big store in the old quarry that was burned last night. But pray tell me, sir, was any one hurt?”
“No, but we have no thanks to give your people. Now, Mr Raystoke.”
He marched out, and Archy was following, but Mrs Shackle arrested him.
“God bless you, my dear!” she whispered. “I knew about you being there, but we couldn’t help it, and Ram used to tell me all about it, and how he liked you; and we sent you everything we could to make you comfortable. Be kind now to my son.”
“If Ram turns out a good lad, Mrs Shackle, he shall never want a—”
Archy was going to say friend, but he could not, for Mrs Shackle had thrown her arms about his neck in a big, motherly hug, from which the young officer escaped red-faced and vexed.
“I wish she hadn’t kissed me,” he said to himself, after making sure that no one had seen. “And she has made my face all wet with her crying.”
They were on the march now to the Hoze, with the lieutenant in the highest of glee, and chatting merrily to Archy as a brother officer and a friend.
“If I could only have got the lugger too, Raystoke,” he cried, “it would have been glorious! But I couldn’t do impossibilities, could I?”