Something very nearly akin to a guilty feeling troubled Frank upon meeting his fellow-page that afternoon; but his father’s promise, in conjunction with his words respecting Andrew’s actions being merely those of an enthusiastic boy, helped to modify the trouble he felt, and in a few minutes it passed off. For Andrew began by asking how his friend’s father was, and praising him.
“I always liked your father, Frank,” he said; “but he’s far too good for where he is. Well, we’re off duty till the evening. Ready for our run?”
“Oh yes, I’m ready,” said Frank, laughing; “but you won’t run unless somebody’s carriage is being mobbed. You could go fast enough then.”
“Well, of course I can run if I like. Come along.”
“Where’s the bread?” asked Frank.
“Bread? What bread? Are you hungry already?”
“No, no; the bread you talked about.”
“The bread I talked about? What nonsense! I never said anything about bread that I can remember.”
“Well, you said we were going to feed the ducks.”
“Oh–h–oh!” ejaculated Andrew; and he then burst into a hearty fit of laughter. “Of course: so I did. I didn’t think of it. Well, perhaps we had better take some. Ring the bell, and ask one of the footmen to bring you some.”