“T’other hand, Syd, lad,” cried the admiral; and he grasped it firmly. “Try, Harry?—he won’t need to try. He’s a Belton every inch of him, and he’ll make a ten times better officer than ever we did. Here, where’s the port? Who’s going to drink success to the boy in coffee? Bah, what does the liquor matter! We’ll drink it in our hearts, boy. Here’s to Admiral Belton—my dear boy—our dear boy, Harry, eh?”
“God bless you, my lad!” cried Captain Belton. “You’ve made me feel more proud of you and happy than I have felt for years.”
“Here, hi!” roared the admiral; “where’s that lubber Strake? I want some one to help me cheer. Sydney, boy, God bless you! I am glad you ran away.”
“Then you forgive me, father?”
“Hold your tongue, sir,” cried Captain Belton, laying his hand on his son’s shoulder. “There are things that we all like to forget as soon as we can—this is one of them. Let’s blot it out.”
“But I want to ask a favour, father.”
“Granted, my boy, before you ask.”