“I’ve done. I’m satisfied. You’ll be as eager on the other side some day, Frank; and I like you all the better for being so staunch as you are. As my father says, it makes you the better worth winning.”
“When did your father say that?” cried Frank sharply.
“Never mind. Perhaps he wrote it to me. You can’t expect me to be quite open with you if you’re not with me. But, I say,” cried the lad enthusiastically, “it’s grand!”
“What is?”
“For us to be both with our fathers banished. Why, Frank, it’s like making heroes of us.”
“Making geese of us! What nonsense!”
“Just as you like; but I shall feel what I please. I never did see such a fellow as you are, though. You have no more romance in you than a big drum. But, I say, tell us all about it.”
With a little pressing Frank told him all, the narrative being given, in an undertone, and after a faithful promise of secrecy, on one of the benches under a tree in the Park, while Andrew sat with his fingers interlaced and nipped between his knees, flushed of face, his eyes flashing, and his teeth set.
“Oh,” he cried at last, “I wish I had been there, and it had come to a fight.”
“What good would that have done?” said Frank.