“I was thinking of what you said, uncle.”
“Humph! Well, I hope you’ll take it to heart.”
“Yes,” said his father; “you may as well be a surgeon.”
“That’s what I should have liked to be,” said Sydney, “if I had been a doctor.”
“Well, you’re going to be, sir. Your uncle and I have talked it over, and you shall study for it, and begin as soon as you’re old enough.”
Sydney sat still, gazing at his plate; but he raised his eyes at last, and looked firmly at his father, who was watching him keenly.
“Thank you, father,” he said.
“No, sir, don’t thank me; thank your indulgent uncle.”
“No, don’t, boy, because I give way most unwillingly; and I’m confoundedly sorry you should want to be such a physic-mixing swab.”
“You needn’t be sorry, uncle,” said Sydney, quietly; “and I’m very grateful to you, father, but I shall not be one now.”