“Poor lad!” he continued; “it’s a very sad affair, and I’m very sorry for you. I always liked your father, and I never disliked you, which is saying a deal, for I hate boys as a rule. Confounded young monkeys, and no good whatever, except to get into mischief. There, I see now—ought to have seen it with half an eye. There, there, there, my lad; don’t take on about it. Cheer up! You’re amongst friends who like you, and the sun will come out again, even if it does get behind the black clouds sometimes.”
He patted the boy’s shoulder, and stroked his back, meaning, old bachelor as he was, to be very tender and fatherly; but it was clumsily done, for the doctor had never served his time to playing at being father, and begun by practising on babies. Hence he only irritated the boy.
“He talks to me and pats me as if I were a dog,” said Frank to himself; and he would have manifested his annoyance in some way to one who was doing his best, when fortunately there was a sharp rap at the door, and a familiar voice cried:
“May I come in, doctor?”
“No, sir, no. I’m particularly engaged. Oh, it’s you, Murray!—Mind his coming in, Gowan?”
“Oh no; I want to see him!” cried the boy, springing up.
“Come in!” shouted the doctor.
“You here, Frank?” said the captain, holding out his hands, in which the boy sadly placed his own, but withdrew them quickly.
“Yes, of course he is,” said the doctor testily. “Came to see his friends. In trouble, and wants comforting.”
“Yes,” said Captain Murray quietly, as he laid his hand upon the boy’s shoulder. “Then you know the truth now, Frank?”