Chapter Eight.
“To-morrow come never!”
“I really beg your pardon, Aunt Polly, for my inattention!” cried Bob, in a state of great excitement. “It’s the Captain!”
“Sure, you don’t mean that, my dear,” said Mrs Gilmour, equally flurried, rising at once from the seat she had just taken at the head of the table. “Is it him, really?”
“Oh, yes, auntie,” replied Bob, returning to his post of observation in the corner of the window. “There he is coming along the terrace, with Dick at his heels.”
“Indeed, now?” said Mrs Gilmour, who had come up to Bob’s side. “Let me look for meself. Sure and you’re right. It’s him and none other, and he’s coming along at a grand pace, too!”
“Hurrah!” shouted Bob. “Isn’t it jolly, auntie?”
“Very jolly,” agreed Mrs Gilmour, more sedately, laughing at Bob’s ecstasies, the boy, like most youngsters, being all extremes. “I call it very nice of him, Nell, don’t you?”