Dick took up the something, which was of leather, and in the shape of a porte-monnaie with gilt metal edges, and on one side a gilt shield upon which was engraved, in flourishing letters, “AT.”
“Old Taffs started a cigar-case,” said Dick, bursting into a guffaw. “I wonder whether—yes—five!” he added, as he opened the case and saw five cigars tucked in side by side and kept in their places by a leather band. “What a game! I’ll smug it and keep it for ever so long. He ought not to smoke.”
Just then the handle of the door rattled faintly, the door was thrust open, and as Dick scuffled the cigar-case into his breast-pocket Mr Temple appeared, coming in very cautiously so as not to disturb his sick son.
Dick did not know it, but his father had been in four times during the night to lay a hand upon his forehead and listen to his breathing, and he started now in astonishment.
“What, up, Dick?” he said in a low voice, after a glance at the bed, where Arthur was sleeping soundly.
“Yes, father; I was going to have a bathe.”
“But—do you feel well?”
“Yes, quite well, father. I’m all right.”
Mr Temple looked puzzled for a few minutes, and then rubbed his ear, half-amused, half vexed.
“Don’t wake Arthur,” he said. “Come along down and we’ll have a walk before breakfast.”