Just then Grant entered with the portion of the breakfast kept back till Max came down, The Mackhai seated himself, and the breakfast began.
As at previous meals, the host was very much abstracted: when he was not partaking of his breakfast, he was reading his letters or referring to the newspaper, leaving the task of entertaining the guest to his son.
“How do you feel now?” said Kenneth.
“Not very comfortable,” whispered Max. “May I ask Grant to have a good search made for my things?”
“Oh no, don’t ask him now. It puts him out. You’ll be all right, and forget all about them soon.”
“I—I don’t think I shall,” said Max, as he made a very poor breakfast.
“Oh yes, you will. I say, if I were you, I’d write up to my tailor to send you down two rigs-out like that. You’ll find ’em splendid for shooting and fishing.”
Max shook his head.
“Never mind. Have some of this kipper, it’s—”
“Ow!” ejaculated Max, dropping his coffee-cup on the table, so that it upset, and the brown fluid began to spread, as the lad sprang back from the table.