“I am displeased with Morton. After yesterday’s incident, he should have been here to discuss with me the future of his campaign.”
“Here he is, papa,” cried Claire eagerly, and she rose to kiss her brother affectionately as he came rather boisterously into the room, looking tall, thin and pale, but healthy and hungry, as an overgrown boy of nineteen would look who had been out at the seaside before breakfast.
“You were not here to prayers, Morton,” said the MC sternly.
“No, father; didn’t know it was so late,” said the lad, beginning on the toast as soon as he was seated.
“I trust that you have not been catching—er—er—dabs, this morning.” The word was distasteful when the fish was uncooked, and required an effort to enunciate.
“Oh, but I have, though. Rare sport this morning. Got enough for dinner.”
The MC was silent for a few moments, and gracefully sipped his thin tea. He was displeased, but there was a redeeming feature in his son’s announcement—enough fish for dinner. There would be no need to order anything of the butcher.
“Hush, Morton,” said Claire softly, and she laid her soft little hand on his, seeing their father about to speak.
“I am—er—sorry that you should be so thoughtless, Morton,” said his father; “at a time, too, when I am making unheard-of efforts to obtain that cornetcy for you; how can you degrade yourself—you, the son of a—er—man—a—er—gentleman in my position, by going like a common boy down below that pier to catch—er—dabs!”
“Well, we want them,” retorted the lad. “A good dinner of dabs isn’t to be sneezed at. I’m as hungry as hungry, sometimes. See how thin I am. Why, the boys laugh, and call me Lanky Denville.”