“Thank you,” cried the young sailor warmly, and his voice sounding a little husky from the emotion he felt. “Thank you, Neil, old fellow, you seem more than ever like a big brother to me now.”
“Here is my father,” said Neil, quickly. “Wait your opportunity, and get it over.”
For at that instant Mr Elthorne appeared at the door, looking the beau-idéal of a tall, middle-aged country gentleman, with many years of hearty, vigorous life before him.
“Morning, Beck,” he cried. “Ah, Neil, my boy, glad to see you down already. Why, you ought to have had a few hours’ more rest.”
“I’m accustomed to short and broken nights,” said the young man, warmly returning the grasp of his father’s hand. “How well you look, sir!”
“Sorry I can’t return the compliment, my boy. You look, white and careworn. Never mind; we’ll soon blow the London smoke out of you. Can you manage a ride after breakfast?”
“Yes, and enjoy it.”
“That’s right. The Lydon girls are coming over, and we’ll mount you on the old cob. By the way, I thought I heard Burwood’s voice.”
“He is down the garden with Alison,” said Neil.
“That’s right. I asked him to come over to breakfast. He is going to try my new purchase for me. But it’s of no use to talk horseflesh to you. Well, my dear?”