“No, that you wouldn’t be, Darrell,” said the captain, smiling. “Well, I’ll tell you something. We were dreadfully disappointed when we found Sir George had interested himself in your being appointed to our crack troop, and Wyatt, there, said it was an abominable shame for some pampered scrap of a boy to be put into an important place, when hundreds of clever, experienced officers would have been glad to have such a feather in their caps.”
“Here I say—gently!” cried Wyatt, who had sat at the table staring. “I didn’t say that it was you.”
“Was it?”
“Of course it was.”
“Ah, yes, you’re right—I did,” said the captain coolly; “but you agreed to it.”
“Yes, I agreed to it all.”
“But we think differently, Darrell, now we have found out what sort of a fellow you are; and I’m speaking for old Wyatt here and myself when I tell you frankly that we’re very glad you’ve joined us, and may it be many, many years before we part.”
“Oh, thank you, Captain Hulton,” cried Dick warmly. “You’ve made me feel that I—yes, that I—I—I can’t say any more.”
“Nobody wants you to, my lad,” said the captain warmly. “We want acts, not words. You’ve done a thing to-day that has won over every man in the troop, and henceforth you’ll feel, I hope, that you are among friends.”
“I do!” cried Dick warmly.