“But he mustn’t have a sword; he’ll be making some trouble.”
“Well, if he makes an end to Master Pawson, sir, I think he may just lie down and die at once like a regular hero, for he’ll have done the finest thing he ever did in his life.”
“Oh, nonsense, Ben! You and all of you must mind the poor old fellow does nothing foolish.”
Ben growled and shook his head, for his ideas were not at all in accordance with his young master’s.
“You need not look so sour, Ben,” Roy hastened to say. “Master Pawson will get his deserts some day.”
“Yes, sir,” said the old soldier, sourly; “his sort generally seem to in this precious world. His deserts seem to be your father’s fine old property to wallow in, and get fatter and rounder-faced every day. He’d better not go and sit and read big books belonging to your father atop of either of the towers when I’m nigh, sir, for I’ll pitch him off as sure as he plays the fiddle.”
The men laughed.
“Oh, you may grin,” said Ben, “but I mean it. You know, I s’pose, Master Roy, as they’ve emptied his room and carried everything into your father’s library,—fiddle and all. Oh, how I should like to smash that caterwaulin’ thing!”
“I did not know it, Ben,” said Roy, thoughtfully. “I keep away from there as much as I can. But I say, Ben,” he continued, smiling, as he laid his hand upon the old soldier’s knee, “your wound is hurting you a good deal to-day.”
“Awful, my lad, awful; it’s getting better, but it feels as if a hungry dog was gnawing the bone.”