The Reverend Theophilus Stronghand was a younger son of a family so old that those families which “came over with the Conqueror” were mere moderns in comparison. Its origin, indeed, is lost in those mists of antiquity which have already swallowed up so many millions of the human race, and seem destined to go on swallowing, with ever-increasing appetite, to the end of time. The Stronghands were great warriors—of course. They could hardly have developed into a family otherwise. The Reverend Theophilus, however, was a man of peace. We do not say this to his disparagement. He was by no means a degenerate son of the family. Physically he was powerful, broad and tall, and his courage was high; but spiritually he was gentle, and in manner urbane. He drew to the church as naturally as a duck draws to the water, and did not by any means grudge to his elder brothers the army, the navy, and the Bar.
One of his pet theories was, to overcome by love, and he carried this theory into practice with considerable success.
Perhaps no one put this theory to the test more severely or frequently than his only son Harry. War had been that young gentleman’s chief joy in life from the cradle. He began by shaking his fat fists at the Universe in general. War-to-the-knife with nurse was the chronic condition of a stormy childhood. Intermittent warfare with his only sister Emmie chequered the sky of his early boyhood, and a decided tendency to disobey wrung the soul of his poor mother, and was the cause of no little anxiety to his father; while mischief, pure and simple for its own sake, was the cherished object of his life. Nevertheless, Harry Stronghand was a lovable boy, and love was the only power that could sway him.
The lad grew better as he grew older. Love began to gain the day, and peace began—slowly at first—to descend on the parsonage; but the desire for mischief—which the boy named “fun”—had not been quite dislodged at the time we write of. As Harry had reached the age of fifteen, feared nothing, and was quick-witted and ingenious, his occasional devices not only got him into frequent hot water, but were the source of some amusement to his people—and he still pretty well ruled his easy-going father and the house generally with a rod of iron.
It was to Harry Stronghand that little Pat directed his steps, after overhearing the conversation which we have related. Pat knew that the son of the parsonage was a hero, and, in his opinion, the most intelligent member of the family, and the best fitted to cope with the facts which he had to reveal. He met the object of his search on the road.
“Plaze yer honour,” said Pat—who was an Irishman, and therefore “honoured” everybody—“there’s two tramps at the public as is plottin’ to break into your house i’ the mornin’.”
“You don’t mean it, do you?” returned Harry, with a smile and raised eyebrows.
“That’s just what I do, yer honour. I heard ’em reel off the whole plan.”
Hereupon the boy related all that he knew to the youth, who leaned against a gate and nodded his curly head approvingly until the story was finished.
“You’ve not mentioned this to any one, have you, Pat?”