“What shall we do, Dick?”
“I’m going to dress,” was the reply; and the speaker began to hurry on his things. “You had better go home.”
“No,” said Tom sturdily; “if I’ve got you into a hobble I’ll stand by you. But I didn’t mean any harm.”
Five minutes later all were standing down in the great stone porch, the squire with a stout staff and Mr Marston similarly armed.
The squire looked very hard at the two lads, but he did not speak. Still there was something in his glance, dimly seen though it was in the star-light, which made Dick wince. It was as if something had risen up between father and son; and, rightly or wrongly the lad felt that his father was looking upon him with doubt.
At the end of a few moments Dick mastered his awkwardness, and spoke to his father as the latter came down from saying a few parting words to Mrs Winthorpe.
“Shall I come with you, father—I mean, shall we?”
“If you like,” said the squire coldly. “Come, Marston.”
Dick made a movement to speak to the latter, but he was staring straight out across the fen in the direction of the draining works, and fretting with impatience at the delay.
The next minute a start was made, and the boys were left behind.