“Not altogether,” and Dr. Reynald shook his head obstinately. “I’ve seen luxurious interiors where a boy slip would not want to take root. There’s something about you, Judge, attractive to young life. You ought to have a dozen youngsters.”
His friend stretched out his hands. “Heaven forbid! but I will confess it caused me a pang to send this boy back to the New York whirlpool. Perhaps I am not sorry to shelter him for a time. Something else may turn up for him. Would you like him?”
“No, thank you,” said Dr. Reynald, politely. “A hospital home and an old bachelor father would be cold comforts for your boy. No, keep him, but try to break him of that iniquitous habit of shamming.”
“Do you suppose he has been deceiving in other things?” asked the Judge, anxiously.
“You said he had eaten no breakfast?”
“Yes, I did. He has eaten nothing this morning.”
“He has been cramming himself with soda crackers. I smelt them on his breath.”
“But I cannot bring up such a boy as this with Titus,” remarked the Judge, indignantly.
“Do you think he can deceive your grandson as easily as he deceives you?” asked the doctor, sharply. “Ah! the finesse of youth—nothing equals it but the equal understanding of youth.”
The Judge reflected for a minute. Titus’s manner had been very peculiar when he announced Dallas’s illness. He had also gone off to school without showing any particular concern about the English boy.