Mason was fascinated by the boys' pleasant assumption of authority. They spoke like young gentlemen, with the accent that betokens a good education. He yielded without a protest.
They sat three abreast in a hansom, and the vehicle scurried off toward the Westminster Bridge Road.
Mason was in the center. His giant form leaned over the closed doors of the cab, but he turned his head with interested eagerness as one or other of his sons addressed him.
"I suppose, father, you are wondering how we came to meet in such a place," said John.
"It might puzzle me if I found time to think."
"Well, the superintendent arranged everything. Unfortunately, he was away on his holidays when—when you were released—or we would have met you then, and his deputy was not aware of the circumstances. As soon as the superintendent returned he wrote to the governor, and was very much annoyed to find that you had slipped away in the meantime."
"He wouldn't be so annoyed if he was there himself," growled Mason, good-humoredly.
"Oh, John didn't mean that, father," broke in Willie. "The annoyance was his, and ours. You see, we had not known very long where you were. We didn't even know you were alive."
"Of course, of course. Somebody has been looking after you well. That's clear enough. They wouldn't be always telling a pair of boys that their father was in Portland."
"It gave us such a shock when we heard the truth," said downright John.