The Doctor came forward to greet him. He was looking wretchedly ill and worn, but he had always a cheery word for his nephew, whom he cordially approved.
“Well, Ernest, old boy, how are you? How are the Crusaders going on? Is there much fighting at present?”
“Plenty of fighting, uncle, though we do not have a big gun to accompany us. How are you? Have you come to stay a few weeks, or will you run away directly, as you generally do?”
“I think my patients consider that I usually stay quite long enough. I must try to get back by to-morrow evening. How many boys do you number now in your regiment? Three hundred? That is splendid. I hope they will all be faithful.”
“Certainly something has improved the boys of Granchester,” said Miss Stapleton. “They are not nearly as rude and coarse as they were. Mother and I were remarking it the last time we went through the streets. Although it was evening we did not hear a single boy swear. And that is a thing that ought to be written in red ink among the chronicles of Granchester.
“You see, Mat, that these fellows are all capable of being taught and persuaded, only the wrong teachers get hold of them. The best lessons are not to be got in the streets; but it is in the streets that most boys get their lessons. They are a little mistaken as to what manliness is; but that is not their fault. How should they know if they are not taught? They judge by the men whom they see. They seldom have the best types exhibited to them.”
“They know something of their fathers’ masters, I suppose?”
“Yes; but all their fathers’ masters are not like our father. Many of them do not treat their men properly.”
“You see, Uncle Fred, what Ernest’s tendencies are! He is a Socialist. And he is a poet of the people! Think of it! Ernest, you will let Uncle Fred see your last attempt. Here it is, uncle. I made him give me a copy.”
Dr. Stapleton took the paper, and read—