“Half-past what?” cried Sir Hilton, staring at the clock-face, and then passing his hand over his eyes impatiently. “I say, here, Syd, my eyes are not clear to-night. What time is it?”
“Half-past three, uncle.”
“Half-past what? Here, I’m getting mixed. Why is it half-past three? What has the clock been gaining like that for? Here, Syd, why don’t you answer, sir? I can’t remember. What does it all mean?”
“I think it’s because your head’s a bit wrong, uncle,” said the boy, shrinking.
“I think it’s because you’re an impudent young rascal, sir,” cried Sir Hilton in a passion. “Ah! I remember now; I promised you a good thrashing for—for—”
He stopped short, and looked vacantly at his nephew for some seconds. Then—
“Here, what the deuce did I promise you a good thrashing for, sir?”
“A thrashing, uncle? Let me see—”
“Bah!” cried Sir Hilton, turning angrily away and making for the drawing-room again, to find the trainer mopping his forehead where he sat, and Molly leaning back in the corner of the quilted couch dropping off to sleep, but ready to start up at his coming.
“Here, you,” he cried, “that boy Syd’s an idiot.”