“Well,” cried Sir James excitedly, “of all the—the—Here, doctor, I have come, and I suppose I am to submit to—pooh!—there—it’s this hot weather—let’s get away as soon as we can, doctor, and—here, I feel sure that the boys have encountered some cunning impostor,” and Sir James stopped short, and wiped his forehead before continuing, “Here, I say, Robertson, what about charity and one’s fellow-creatures? And don’t we read somewhere about helping a lame dog over a stile?”
“Yes, Sir James,” said the doctor, very quietly.
“To be sure, and I am quite certain that this heat makes me feel horribly irritable. These boys take it all as coolly as—what do they say?—as cucumbers. Nothing affects them.”
The two lads stared at each other as they recalled their walk, and burst into a half hysterical laugh.
“Why, uncle,” cried Dean, “Mark’s been horrid all day, and I haven’t been a bit better.”
“I am glad to hear it, boy. Then there’s some excuse for me. Well, doctor, I suppose you had better go and see this fellow. I will trust to your common sense. Here, stop. You boys, has this fellow anybody here who will give him a character?”
“Yes,” they exclaimed together; “the British Consul.”
“Humph! Come, that sounds respectable. Well, I don’t mean to stir out till we start up country. I’d go to-night if I could. And I leave it to you to see into this matter. It wouldn’t be Christian-like, would it, not to lend the poor fellow a hand. There, as I said before, I trust to you, carte blanche, in that sort of thing to do what you think best.”
“Thank you, Sir James,” said the doctor gravely.
“Oh, you thoroughly approve of what I have said, then?”