“Yes, father, I’m coming,” said the red-faced boy, with a grin; and then he dodged while the old boatswain made a blow at his head with open hand.
“Here, I’ll speak to the skipper at once about you, youngster. Doing the knives and boots and helping over the weeds is spyling your morals.”
“Speak—what about, father?”
“Speak? What about? Why, you swab, do you think I had you chrissen Pan-a-mar, arter a glorious naval victory, o’ purpose to have you grow up into a ’long-shore lubber? There, get indoors. ’Fore you’re many hours older I’ll have you afloat.”
Pan went slowly up to the house, followed by his father, who walked along the gravel path with his legs wide apart, as if he expected the ground to heave up; while Sydney went round to the front of the house, and entered by the dining-room window, where his father, uncle, and the doctor were still seated at the table.
“Why, Syd, lad, we did not see you go,” said his father; “come and sit down.”
The boy obeyed, looking furtively from one to the other, as if he knew instinctively that something particular was coming.
“Ahem!” The admiral gave vent to a tremendous forced cough.
“No, Tom, I’ll tell him,” said Captain Belton. “Look here, Syd, my boy, at your time of life lads do not know what is best for them, so it is the duty of their fathers to decide.”
“Is it, father?”