“But, I say, look here, Mrs Hamton,” cried Glyn, catching the hand which was bearing the sponge and holding it to his cheek, to the old lady’s intense satisfaction, though somehow there came an unwonted look of moisture in her eyes.
“What were you going to say, my dear? But, dear, dear, what a pity it is that you should go and disfigure yourselves like this! What would your poor father say if he knew?”
“Oh, I say, don’t talk about it,” cried Glyn.—“Fancy, Singhy, if he could see us now!”
Glyn tried to whistle, but his puffed-up lips refused to give forth a sound; and, seeing this, Singh whistled for him, and then in spite of the pain and stiffness of their faces the two boys laughed till the suffering became intense.
“Oh, don’t, don’t, don’t, Singhy!” cried Glyn. “I can’t bear it.”
“Well, I never did see two such young gentlemen as you are,” said the old housekeeper, smiling in turn.
“You ought both to be lying back looking as melancholy as black, and here you are making fun of your troubles. Ah, it’s a fine thing, my dears, to be boys and quite young; but I do hope that you will never fight any more, and that you will both soon go and shake hands with Mr Slegge, and tell him you are very sorry you hit him. I am sure that he must feel very sorry that he ever hit you, he being so much bigger and having so long had the advantage of being taught by the Doctor, who is the best man that ever lived, while you two are so new, and you, Mr Singh, so much younger than Mr Slegge that I do wonder he ever so far forgot himself as to hit you. Now, you will make friends afterwards, won’t you?”
“No!” cried Singh sharply. “I hate the coward.”
“Oh, my dear!” cried the old lady.
“He doesn’t mean it, nursey,” cried Glyn, getting hold of her hand again. “He only said it because he feels so sore. He’s got a sore face and a sore temper; but it will be all right when he gets well.”