The Major recovered from the shock of dismay with which he had at first contemplated the little sea-ragamuffin—and as he caught the look and smile with which Boy accompanied his question he began to breathe again.
“No, she has not come,” he replied, taking a grip of Boy’s thin shoulder with his strong yet gentle hand. “She is in Scotland. I am going over there to shoot. And I want to take you with me if your mother will let you come. How would you like to go, eh?”
Boy remained speechless. He could really have cried for joy at the idea—but he had learnt to control his emotions. One of the special “points” of his mother’s character was the maternal delight she had in refusing him any very special relaxation—she judged that as “discipline,” and used to say it was “a mother’s duty” to see that “her son” was not spoilt. So remembering this in time, he only smiled and was silent. Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir, looking narrowly at him, smiled also, condescendingly and complacently.
“Dear Boy! He doesn’t want to leave me,” she said, reverting to her old idea that she had made herself an absolute necessity to his comfort and happiness. “But I really think—yes—I think I should like him to go with you, Major. A little change will do him good—he is growing so fast——”
“Yes, by Jove he is!” agreed Desmond, looking at the little fellow with a doubtful air; “and getting jolly thin on it too! What do you feed him on, eh? Oh, never mind, we won’t go into it if you’d rather not. A little knocking round in the heather won’t hurt him. Well, ma’am, if you’re agreeable I can take him at once—we can reach London this evening and take the mail train up to-morrow.”
And so with few words, to Boy’s complete amazement, it was all settled. He was told to go and get washed and dressed, and the good-natured maid-of-all-work hearing these instructions, came to him in his little room and scrubbed him down, and helped him into his only decent suit of clothes, still of the “Jack Tar” pattern, and made by a country tailor. The country tailor was the only one who had fitted Boy properly; all his other clothes were stitched together loosely by Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir, who had “designed” them, as she said with much pride, and “cut” them, alas! on the following of those designs. A few little shirts and socks were crammed hastily into the very portmanteau Major Desmond had given him so long ago, and the maid-of-all-work perceiving a loose box of toys in a corner, containing she knew not what, put that in also—“for,” she muttered to herself, “they’ll amuse him on a rainy day, and I’ve heard it always rains in Scotland.” And so before he had time almost to look round, he had said good-bye to his mother,—his father was at the public-house and it was not worth while sending for him,—and was in the train with the Major sitting opposite to him—yes, there they were, flying, rushing, flying along to London at the rate of fifty miles an hour. He could hardly believe it; his head was quite confused with the hurry and surprise of it. He felt a little shy too, and afraid; the pretty confidence of his early days had quite disappeared. He peeped up every now and then at the Major, and the Major in turn, over the edge of a newspaper, peeped at him.
“By Jove, how the poor little beggar has been allowed to run wild!” thought the good-natured gentleman, whom the passing of years had made more good-natured than ever. “Looks like a ragged wastrel!” Aloud he said, “Boy, old chap, do you know what I’m going to do with you when we get to town?”
Boy smiled trustfully, because the Major looked so cheerful.
“No,” he said. “You tell me!”
“I’m going to put you in a mild Turkish bath,” pursued the Major. “Know what that is?”