"Dear boy, you scent a love-romance! It's nothing like that. And there are two reasons why you cannot punch his head. He's small and insignificant and three times your age. Also he's in jail!"
Alarm shot through Dick's heart. "Why, Aunt Bella, have you had a burglar, too?"
"Too?" Aunt Bella repeated, looking interested.
"Yes—we've had a burglary at school, but never mind that now—tell me about the chap that's in jail, and why."
"Oh, it's the old tale, Dick. Lonely widow seeks solace in golf—leaves trusted lawyer to manage her affairs—wakes up one morning to find that he has coolly spent all the money she has asked him to put out on mortgage."
"The blackguard!" cried Dick.
"Oh, I'm not the only sufferer—I can survive it better than some of his other clients, notably the officers' widows, poor souls. Still, I shall have to give up this house and go into rooms, which I hate. Moreover, I shall lose my golf, which is worse."
Dick, never a great spokesman, was overwhelmed by this story of his aunt's misfortune. His own trouble, of which he had been so full a few minutes before, went clean out of his head. Vainly he racked his brains for words of comfort and sympathy. A tragedy like this was too deep for glib consolation.
"Dear old Auntie, I hope he gets fifteen years," he blurted out at last. "You're a brick to laugh over it. Let—let's get out of this and have a round of golf—not for the last time, either. Things are bound to come out all right. There'll be something saved from the wreck."
Aunt Bella's eyes shone almost happily now. "God bless you, dear boy, for your cheeriness!" she said. "You've bucked me up no end. Golf? Why, certainly. We need another enthusiast in the family to carry on the good work. Come, I'll teach you something that even a football captain doesn't know!"