“Morning, Harry,” he said; “morning, Syd.”
He closed the door behind him and came forward, and then, odd as it may sound in connection with one who was weak, unwell, and suffering from so much mental trouble, Sydney burst into a hearty fit of laughter. He tried to check it; he knew that under the circumstances it was in the worst of taste; he felt that he would excite his father’s anger, and that then he would be furious; but he laughed all the same, and the more he tried the more violent and lasting the fits grew.
“Sydney!” cried his father, and then there was a pause followed by a hearty “Ha, ha, ha!” as the captain joined in, and the admiral gently patted his own face first on one side and then on the other.
“Yes,” he said, quietly; “you may well laugh. I look a nice guy, don’t I?”
“Oh, uncle! I beg your pardon—but—oh, oh, oh, I can’t stop laughing,” cried Sydney.
“Well, get it done, boy,” said the old gentleman, “for I want my breakfast. Oh, here is Broughton.”
The butler entered with a rack of hot dry toast, and as he advanced to the table the admiral exclaimed—
“Now, sir, look here; you’ve made a nice mess of my phiz. What have you got to say to this?”
The butler raised his eyes as he set down the toast, gazed full in the old gentleman’s face, his own seemed frozen solid for a moment, and then, clapping the napkin he carried to his mouth to smother his laughter, he turned and fled.
“And that son of a sea-cook begged my pardon last night, and said he was sorry. Yes, I am a sight. Look at my eyes, Harry, swollen up and black. There’s a nose for you; and one lip cut. Why, I never got it so bad in action. And all your fault, Syd. There, I forgive you, boy.”