The result was that Syd did eat a decent supper, and an hour later, when all was still, he sat thinking for a time about the coming morning. Perhaps more than that of the fact that neither his father nor his uncle had shaken hands when they parted for the night.
Then came sleep—sweet, restful sleep—and he was dreaming vividly for a time of a desperate fight with the French, in which he boarded a larder, and captured a butler, footman, and a gardener. After that all was dense, dreamless sleep, till he started up in bed, for there was a knocking at his door.
Chapter Eleven.
“May I come in, sir?”
“Yes; come in, Broughton,” said Syd, recognising the voice, and the butler entered with one hand bound up.
“That, sir? Oh, nothing, sir. Only got it in the scrimmage last night. So glad to see you back again, Master Syd.”
“Oh, don’t talk about it, Broughton,” groaned the boy. “My father down?”
“No, sir; but he’s getting up, and your uncle too. I was to come and tell you to make haste.”