Jack’s pitiable look of despair was almost comical.
“While you, sir,” cried Sir John angrily, “you’re a regular molly, and do nothing but coddle yourself over the fire and read. It’s read, read, read, from morning till night, and when you do go out, it’s warm wrappers and flannel and mackintoshes. Why, hang it all, boy! you go about as if you were afraid of being blown over, or that the rain would make you melt away.”
“I am very sorry, father,” said the youth piteously; “I’m afraid I am not like other boys.”
“Not a bit.”
“I can’t help it.”
“You don’t try, Jack. You don’t try, my boy. I always had the best of accounts about you from Daneborough. The reports are splendid. And, there, my dear boy, I am not angry with you, but it is very worrying to see you going about with lines in your forehead and this white face, when I want to see you sturdy and—well, as well and hearty as I am. Why, Jack, you young dog!” he cried, slapping him on the shoulder, and making the lad wince, “I feel quite ashamed of myself. It isn’t right for an old man like I am.”
“You old, father!” said the lad, with more animation, and a faint flush came in his cheeks. “Why you look as well and young and strong as—”
“As you ought to be, sir. Why, Jack, boy, I could beat you at anything except books—walk you down, run you down, ride, jump, row, play cricket, shoot, or swim.”
“Yes, father, I know,” sighed the lad.
“But I’m ashamed to do anything of the kind when I see you moping like a sick bird in a cage.”