“Why do you not tell me?” she cried wildly. “Do you not see how you are torturing me? Speak—tell me. What of Fred?”
Her imperious, insistent manner seemed to force the lad to speak, and he said, slowly and unwillingly:
“He was going along the Parade, and ran up against Rockley, and Payne, and Bray; poor chap, he did not salute them, I believe, and Rockley gave him a cut with his whip.”
“Major Rockley!” cried Claire, with ashy lips.
“Yes; and he knocked over Bray and that puppy Payne. Curse them! they were like skittles to him. Fred’s full of pluck; and, sis,” cried Morton excitedly, as his eyes flashed with pleasure, “he took hold of that black-muzzled, blackguard Rockley, snatched his whip from him, and thrashed him till he couldn’t stand.”
“Fred beat Major Rockley?” cried Claire, with a horrified look, as she realised the consequences forgotten for the moment by the boy.
“Yes; thrashed the blackguard soundly; but they followed him with a sergeant and a file or two of men to take him.”
“Yes. Go on.”
“They found him at Linnell’s, talking to Richard Linnell and—”
Morton stopped with white face, and repented that he had said so much.