“Poor little chap!” thought Glyn. “Why, that brute of a cat must have had one of his white mice, and he’s crying about it.”
Glyn went in at once and crept on tip-toe in the direction of his own desk, where he was about to write his letter; but he contrived to pass behind Burton unheard, and stopped short, to find that he was right, for the little fellow was bending low into his desk crying silently, save when a faint sob escaped him, while his outstretched hands were playing with three white mice. The door of their little cage was wide open, and they kept going in and out, to run fearlessly about their master’s fingers, the cuffs of his jacket forming splendid hiding-places into which they darted from time to time, to disappear before coming out again to nestle in the boy’s hands.
Glyn watched him for a few minutes, amused and pleased by the little scene and the affection that seemed to exist between the owner and the tame pets he kept within his desk.
“Why, the cat hasn’t got one,” he said; “he’s only got three, and they are all there.”
Just then there was a heavier sob than usual, and Glyn sympathetically laid his hand upon Burton’s shoulder.
The little fellow gave a violent start, and the mice darted into their cage, as their owner turned guiltily round to gaze with wet and swollen eyes in his interrupter’s face.
“Why, what’s the matter, youngster?” said Glyn, bestriding the form and sitting down by Burton to take his hand.
“Oh, nothing, nothing,” said Burton hurriedly, trying to withdraw his hand; but it was held too tightly, and he had to use the other to drag out his handkerchief from his jacket-pocket and wipe his eyes.
“You don’t cry at nothing,” said Glyn gently. “You are too plucky a little chap. I saw Wrench’s cat watching you, and I was afraid he had got one of your mice.”