At another time the young officer would have gone in to his morning meal with an extra flush upon his cheeks—one not caused by the sun; but the praise fell upon almost deaf ears on this occasion, for Dick had gone through everything quite mechanically, his mind being occupied with the trouble that was to come off, and the thought that, even if Sir George Hemsworth was the general in command of the forces in that district, he was still his father’s old school-fellow and friend.
“He can only bully me,” thought Dick. “I’ll risk it, come what may.”
“Anything the matter, old fellow?” said Wyatt over breakfast. “Not ill, are you?”
“Oh, no: bit hot and tired.”
“Go and lie down after breakfast. Get flat on your back. Takes the ache out of it splendidly. Wonderfully restful.”
Half-an-hour later Wyatt growled to himself as he caught sight of Dick crossing the parade-ground in the hot sun.
“Ugh! you obstinate young cub! What’s the use of my trying to play father to you if you don’t take my advice, eh? Now, where’s he going? He can’t want a walk. Why, he’s going to the general’s quarters. What does he want there?”
Wyatt sat thinking for a few minutes.
“Of course! I forgot. Knew the boy’s father. Old man don’t take much notice of him, though. Perhaps it’s all right. Favouritism’s bad, and George is just; I will say that. Sent for him, perhaps. Didn’t tell me.”
But Dick had no such thing to tell his friend, while he shrank from telling what he could have told, feeling perfectly sure that Wyatt would have tried to veto it.