“Why, you treacherous young rascal,” cried the colonel, shaking him violently.
“Don’t, sir, please; you hurt!” cried Cyril half angrily.
“How dare you mutiny against your father’s commands, and come after us like—?”
“I dunno,” said Cyril mournfully. “I felt obliged; I wanted to be with Perry there.”
“But to come masquerading like this, sir! How dare you?”
“I dunno, I tell you,” said the boy petulantly. “It isn’t so very nice to come over the stones without shoes or stockings, and only in this thing. It’s as cold as cold, besides being painted and dirtied up as I am. My feet are as sore as sore.”
“And serve you right, you young dog. What will your father say?”
“I don’t know what he’d have said if you’d shot me,” grumbled Cyril.
The colonel coughed.
“You precious nearly did, you know,” continued Cyril querulously. “I heard the shots go crashing in among the bushes as I ran.”