"I'm not much of a talker, as you know, Malcolm," he said concisely. "And what I've once done for a man I don't generally remind him of, but at Inkerman, years ago when you were a bit of a boy lieutenant, I did you a slight service—"
"You saved my life," said the Scotchman briefly.
"I suppose I did. Well, you are always harping on that, and a service to me. If you will get the boy ordered off without his suspecting—" the older Trevelyan broke off and then went on, "You're a power in politics and could do it better than I. Politics count three-fourths, now-a-days, even with the army."
"I'll do it, but may I know your reason? I always fancied you liked having Robert stationed in England—"
Trevelyan's father dropped the hand that was shading his eyes, with a dull thud on the table.
"I have. But the boy's ruining himself. He will never make even a tin soldier at this rate. He is throwing his chance of a career to the winds—and he don't care. He was reprimanded a month ago for negligence of duty, and again yesterday," the old soldier flushed, "and he don't care! It is not the easiest thing for a man to talk so about his flesh and blood, but—the boy's whole future depends on what he makes of his life now; and I would not give a penny for what it will turn out to be, if he is not hauled up with a sharp turn and gotten out of England. The boy will do the Queen and the Service honor, where there is danger to be faced and courage needed, but the idleness of barrack life—" he broke off.
The elder Stewart nodded.
"True," he said.
"There is something else that has decided me. I went to call on the little American this afternoon."
"Ah?"