He was a high-spirited youth, no better and no worse than the average British schoolboy. He had received his colours at "footer", was a moderate bat, could swim and box, and could ride almost any make of motor-cycle and understand its mechanism as well. True, he hadn't a motor-bike of his own, for the simple reason that funds wouldn't run to it, but his unfailing good nature and ability to undertake repairing jobs were sufficient to give him the run of the majority of motor-cycles belonging to his fellow-boarders.
Normally he was open and inclined to be communicative, but, with Mr. Jaques' warning somewhere in the back of his brain, it was not surprising that he showed a tendency to "choke off" an attempt at conversation on the part of a fellow-passenger on the Folkestone-Boulogne boat.
"Your name's Beverley, isn't it?" inquired the stranger. Dick had noticed him in the foyer of the hotel.
"Yes," he replied shortly. "He can see that by reading the labels on my luggage," he added mentally.
"I know your father," continued the stranger. "My name's Wilson."
"Really," rejoined Dick. "You didn't speak to him in the hotel, did you?"
"No," was the answer, after a moment's hesitation. "I saw you were both talking very earnestly, and naturally one doesn't like to butt in on the eve of parting."
Dick considered. Either the "old buffer" had made a genuine mistake or else he was trying to "pump him". Possibly the latter.
"I'm going as far as Brindisi to meet my daughter from Egypt," continued Mr. Wilson. "You are going farther, I see?"
"Yes, to Taranto," replied Dick. "Cruising in the Mediterranean."