“I—I beg your pardon, uncle, I did not know that—”
“You did, sir,” cried the old man furiously, as he shook his fist at the boy. “You did it maliciously; out of spite, because I want to make a man of you. Bless me, Harry,” he continued, “if you don’t take that young scoundrel out into the hall and thrash him, I’ll never darken your doors again. Dear—dear—dear—dear! Bless my soul! Ah!”
The poor old admiral had risen, and was limping about when Sydney went after him.
“Uncle,” he began.
“Bah!” ejaculated the old man, grasping him by the collar. “Here he is, brother Harry; I’ve got him. Now then, take him out.”
“I’m very sorry, uncle,” said Sydney. “I didn’t know it was your gouty leg there.”
“Then, you did do it on purpose, sir?”
“No, I didn’t, uncle. I wouldn’t have been such a coward.”
“Of course he wouldn’t,” said the doctor. “But there, sir, sit down; the pain is gone off now.”
“How do you know?” cried the admiral. “It’s as if ten thousand red-hot irons were searing it. Harry, you’ve spoiled that boy.”