In a small, bare room Colonel Boyce sat himself down on a pallet bed and made a wry face at his son. "My poor, dear boy," he said, and shifted uneasily, and looked round at the stained walls and shivered. "It's damp, I vow it's damp," he complained.
"Oh yes. It's damp after rain, and it's hot after sun, and it's icy after frost. It's a very sympathetic room," said Harry.
"They are barbarians, these Wavertons. I vow they give their horses better lodging."
"Oh yes. I am not worth so much as a horse," said Harry.
"Lud, Harry, don't whine,"—his father was irritated. "Have some spirit.
I hate to hear a lad meek."
"I thought you did," said Harry.
The Colonel laughed. "Oh, I am bit, am I? Tant mieux. But why the devil do you stay here?"
"Now why the devil do you want to know?" said Harry.
"No, that is not kind, boy."
"Oh, Oh, are we kind?"