“Lucy in the next room, papa.”
“Come in here, Lucy,” cried the squire. “What’s amiss with you?”
“Please, sir, my telegram says that Trigger’s wounded.”
“Nonsense, girl, let me read it.”
“Croft taken with the swag. Am wounded but nothing serious.”
“There’s nothing to cry about in that, Lucy, my good girl. I daresay his wound is a mere scratch.”
“And no doubt, squire,” said Miss Chain, who was much reassured since the receipt of her telegram, “that they had good reasons for being brief and cautious, as they have taken their prisoners and prize into Cherbourg.”
“Quite so, Miss Chain,” cried the squire. “I daresay they have, and, of course, they have to be cautious that they don’t give themselves away in the matter. The fact is, they have engaged in a deucedly delicate matter.”
“Oh, please, sir, do you think Tom will come back on crutches?” asked Lucy.
“More likely, girl, with flying colours and lots of prize money,” said the squire, laughingly.