By the time the breakfast was ended steps were heard in the hall, and the butler came in to announce that the gardener was waiting with his boy.
“Send them in,” said Captain Belton, austerely.
The butler retired; Sir Thomas gave his brother and nephew several nods and winks, and then sat up looking most profoundly angry as the door was again opened and a low growling arose from the hall. Then a few whimpering protests, more growling, with a few words audible: “Swab”—“lubber”—“hold up!”—and then there was a scuffle, another growl, and Panama, looking white and scared, seemed to be suddenly propelled into the room as if from a mortar, the mortar making its appearance directly after in the shape of Barney, who pulled his forelock and kicked out a leg behind to each of the old officers before pointing to Pan and growling out—
“Young desarter—wouldn’t come o’ deck, your honours, and—”
Barney’s remarks had been addressed to his master, but he now turned round toward Sir Thomas, and seemed for the first time to realise the old admiral’s condition, when his jaw dropped, he stared, and then began to scratch his head vigorously.
“My!” he ejaculated; “your honour did get it last night.”
“Get it, you rascal—yes,” cried Sir Thomas; “you nearly killed me amongst you.”
“And, your honour,” said Barney, hoarsely, as he turned to his master, “I hadn’t no idee it was you. I thought it was—”
“Yes, yes, never mind now,” said the captain. “I sent for you about this lad.”
“Oh, Master Syd, sir, say a word for me,” cried the boy, piteously. “Father would ha’ whacked me if I hadn’t run away; then you whacked me when I did; and now I’m to be whacked again. Wish I was dead, I do.”