“Not awfully bad, I hope, my boy,” replied the doctor, “but bad enough to teach you a lesson, young man, not to play such pranks again on a weakly fellow. You’ve caused him a lot of suffering, and a deal of anxiety to others besides.”
“I’m awfully sorry,” said Jack, simply.
“It was just as much our faults,” chimed in Phil and Hubert; “we all helped.”
“Well, you’re all a nice set of young scamps,” said the doctor. “You are a brave woman, Mrs. Busson, to undertake the care of them.”
“Oh! not so brave as you think, doctor,” said the old lady, with returning cheerfulness. “I expect they’ve done their worst now, for they are not the sort of young gentlemen to say they’re sorry and then go and do it again.”
That afternoon a letter directed in Jack’s best writing, and posted only with his and Phil’s knowledge, carried the following lines to Mrs. Durand:
“Dear Aunt Agatha,
It wasn’t Mrs. Busson’s fault, or anybody else’s but our’s. We ducked Andrew in the stream, and we’re awfully sorry now.
Your affectionate nephews,
Jack and Phil Kenyon.”