“Children!” he said, sharply; “I have no children. They are my wards. Their name is Jones;” and he left the room.
“Well, he is a rum sort,” reflected Ernest to himself, “and I don’t think I ever saw such a shiny head before. I wonder if he oils it? But, at any rate, he is kind to me. Perhaps it would have been better if mother had written to him before. She might have gone on living, then.”
Rubbing his hand across his face to clear away the water gathering in his eyes at the thought of his dead mother, Ernest made his way to the wide fireplace at the top end of the room, peeped into the ancient inglenooks on each side, and at the old Dutch tiles with which it was lined, and then, lifting his coat after a grown-up fashion, proceeded to warm himself and inspect his surroundings. It was a curious room in which he stood, and its leading feature was old oak panelling. All down its considerable length the walls were oak-clad to the low ceiling, which was supported by enormous beams of the same material; the shutters of the narrow windows which looked out on the sea were oak, and so were the doors and table, and even the mantelshelf. The general idea given by the display of so much timber was certainly one of solidity, but it could scarcely be called cheerful—not even the numerous suits of armour and shining weapons which were placed about upon the walls could make it cheerful. It was a remarkable room, but its effect upon the observer was undoubtedly depressing.
Just as Ernest was beginning to realise this fact, things were made more lively by the sudden appearance through the swing-door of a large savage-looking bull-terrier, which began to steer for the fireplace, where it was evidently accustomed to lie. On seeing Ernest it stopped and sniffed.
“Hullo, good dog!” said Ernest.
The dog growled and showed its teeth.
Ernest put out his leg towards it as a caution to it to keep off. It acknowledged the compliment by sending its teeth through his trousers. Then the lad, growing wroth, and being not free from fear, seized the poker and hit the dog over the head so shrewdly that the blood streamed from the blow, and the brute, losing his grip, turned and fled howling.
While Ernest was yet warm with the glow of victory, the door once more swung open, violently this time, and through it there came a boy of about his own age, a dirty deep-chested boy, with uncut hair, and a slow heavy face in which were set great gray eyes, just now ablaze with indignation. On seeing Ernest he pulled up much as the dog had done, and regarded him angrily.
“Did you hit my dog?” he asked.
“I hit a dog,” replied Ernest politely, “but—”