"I say, sir, you shouldn't!" blurted Dick miserably.
"Shouldn't what?"
"This." Dick held out the watch, looking very much as if he had received a beating. "I—I didn't do anything."
"Well, you can look at it that way if you like, old man," said Bobby's father. "I look at it another—it seems to me I'd have no Bobby to-night but for you. And I have a value for Bobby. Don't you worry, anyhow. Just remember that you spoiled a good suit of clothes on his account, and got jolly wet and cold; and that we're goin' to be good friends always." He patted Dick's wet head, reassuringly. "I say, what about this father of yours? Am I going to meet him?"
"Rather!" said Dick. "He's in his room. I ought to be getting ready, I suppose."
"I'll come with you and rescue Bobby," said Mr. Warner.
They found Bobby gloriously happy over the forbidden joy of Dick's pocket knife, and presently, leaving him with the twinses and their nurse, went downstairs together. At the foot of the staircase stood John Lester, smoking. Dick's confused introduction was scarcely necessary. The two men gripped hands over his head.
"I owe your boy a heap," Mr. Warner said.
"I'm glad he was handy," Dick's father answered.
Which was all that either said upon the matter. Instead, they talked stock and station, crops and weather, horses and dogs; all the bush talk of Australia, from which John Lester had been exiled. The talk began in the hall before dinner—they sat at adjoining tables, and continued in the lounge afterwards. Dick sat near, blissfully content; it was the talk that he, too, loved to hear, and Mrs. Lester lay back in a great easy-chair, watching her husband's face. It lit up wonderfully when he talked; he leaned forward, asking eager questions, drinking in the other man's slow speech. After a time he turned to Mrs. Warner, apologetically.