A loud voice from the other end of the garden, followed by another, took his attention.
“Poor old Pan catching it again,” mused Syd. “Everybody seems to scold him.”
The dull sound of a blow, a howl, and then a rushing noise explained by the appearance of Panama Strake, who was dashing helter-skelter across the garden, as regardless of flower-bed and tree as a young colt that had broken through a hedge.
“Hi! Pan, where are you going?” cried Syd.
The boy glanced once in his direction, but did not stop running on as hard as he could go for the front entrance, and directly after the gate was heard to bang.
“Some one must have hit him,” thought Syd. “Poor old Pan, he’s always in trouble. Why, I kicked him last week,” he added remorsefully.
“Seen my boy Pan, Master Syd?” said a hoarse voice.
“Yes; he came running by here like a wild bull. Have you been hitting him?”
“Hitting of him?” growled the ex-boatswain; “on’y just wish I’d had a rope’s-end ’stead o’ this here,” and he held up the handle of the rake he had been using. “On’y time to give him one tap and he was gone.”
“Enough to make him go. What was the matter, Barney?”