“Umph!” grunted the doctor, and a few minutes later he and his nephew, hunger-sharpened and weary-legged, were seated facing one another in the widow’s pleasant little parlour, hard at work, and risking all the direful symptoms upon which the elder had discoursed, and thoroughly enjoying hearty draughts of Mrs Champernowne’s fragrant tea.
There was silence in the kitchen, following the final hissings and odours emitted by the hard-worked pan, but a great deal of business went on in the little parlour, the first words that were spoken being by Uncle Paul, who growled out—
“Here, I suppose you had better tell the old lady to put on another rasher of ham to fry.”
“For you, uncle?” said Rodd archly.
“No, sir, for you. You traitorous young dog, leaving all those beautiful trout up on the moor to be devoured by the enemies of your country!”
“Well, they can’t eat them raw, uncle.”
“Why not, sir? They are only so many ravening savages, ready to breathe out battle and slaughter if they got free.”
“That poor boy didn’t seem much of a savage, uncle,” said Rodd quietly; and after a sidelong glance to see whether he dared say it, the boy continued tentatively, “I wish the poor fellow had been here to have this ham.”
“What!” roared his uncle fiercely. “Bah! You wouldn’t have left him a mouthful. Wolf—raven!”
“Yes, I would, uncle. I’d have left him all.”