“And that’s what I want to do, father,” said the lad proudly.
“Of course you do; and so you will. You are altering wonderfully, boy. Why, hallo! I say,” cried the captain, with mock seriousness, as he held his son sidewise and gazed at his profile against the light.
“What’s the matter, father?” cried Frank, startled.
“Keep your head still, sir; I want to look. Yes, it’s a fact—very young and tender, but there it is; it’s coming up fast. Why, Frank boy, you’ll soon have to shave.”
“What nonsense!” cried the boy, reddening partly at being laughed at, but quite as much with satisfaction.
“It’s no nonsense, you young dog. There’s your moustache coming, and no mistake. Why, if I had a magnifying-glass, I could see it quite plainly.”
“I say, father, don’t; I can’t stop long, and—and—that teases one.”
“Then I won’t banter you, boy,” cried Sir Robert, clapping him heartily on the shoulder; “but, I say, you know: it’s too bad of you, sir. I don’t like it.”
“What is, father? What have I done?”
“Oh I suppose you can’t help it; but it’s too bad of you to grow so fast, and make your mother look an old woman.”