“Neither do I,” said the doctor; “it’s past mending. We must have a new coat, Jack.”
“You mean a new boy, Doctor Instow,” said the lad, smiling sadly. “Had you not better let me be?”
“No,” cried Sir John, bringing his fist down heavily upon he table. “That won’t do, Jack. We’ve done wrong, taken the wrong turning, and we must go back and start afresh—eh, Instow?”
“Of course,” said the doctor testily, “and give me time. I’ve got plenty of ideas, but I want to select the right one. Ah! I have it.”
“Yes,” cried Sir John eagerly, and his son looked at him in dismay.
“That’s the very thing. Right away from books and the ordinary routine of life—fresh air of the best, fresh people, fresh scenes, constant change; everything fresh but the water, and that salt.”
“Some country place at the seaside,” said Sir John eagerly.
“No, no; bore the boy to death; make him miserable. Seaside! No, sir, the whole sea, and get away from the side as soon as possible.”
“A sea voyage!” cried Sir John; and his son’s face contracted with horror.
“That’s the thing, sir. You have always been grumbling about the narrowness of your sphere, and envying men abroad who send and bring such fine collections home. Be off together, and make a big collection for yourselves of everything you come across worth saving.”