“And a very brief preparation,” said the professor, “if you come to think of how short a time it is since you dashed in upon us after dinner that evening with your news.”
“Well, don’t reproach me, Landon.”
“Not I, my lad. I know what you must feel. All I want of you now is for you to play the stoic. Make up your mind that you have done your utmost to set the ball rolling; now let it roll, and only give it a touch when you are asked. Believe me that you will be doing your best then.”
“I will try,” said Frank firmly. “Only give me time. I am schooling myself as hardly as I can. It is a difficult part to play.”
The professor reached out his hand and gripped his young companion’s shoulder firmly, riding on for some minutes without relaxing his grasp, the touch conveying more in the way of sympathy than any words would have done, while the discomforts of the novel ride seemed to die away, and the soft dreaminess of the night grew soothing; the vast silvery grey expanse, melting away in its vastness, became lit-up with a faint halo of hope, and with his spirits rising, Frank seemed another man when the professor spoke again—
“Bob Morris will be feeling neglected.”
“Go to him, then,” said Frank quietly.
“No; you go first. But there’s nothing like making a beginning at once.”
“In what way?” asked Frank, for his companion paused.
“Begin treating him as what he is to be till our task is done—the learned Hakim; and begin to school yourself into acting as his slave.”