“What! Feed the ducks! Drew!” cried Frank excitedly.
“Yes; what’s the matter?”
“Feed the ducks?”
“Yes, feed the ducks!”
“You don’t mean to tell me that—that—”
“Mr George Selby is my father? Of course I do.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Frank in astonishment.
“Isn’t it fine?” cried Andrew. “He comes and feeds the ducks—his Majesty King George’s ducks—and the precious spies stand and watch him; and sometimes he has a chance to see me, and sometimes he hasn’t, and then he leaves a note for me in the old tree, for he says it’s the only pleasure he has in his solitary exiled life.”
“Oh, Drew!” cried Frank warmly.
“Yes, poor old chap. I’m not worth thinking about so much, only I suppose I’m something like what poor mother was, and he likes it, or he wouldn’t leave all his plots and plans for getting poor James Francis on the throne to come risking arrest. They’d make short work of him, Frank, if they knew—head shorter. I shall tell him I’ve told you. But I know what he’ll say.”