“All right, my son—good-night.”
“H’m,” thought Harry, as he returned to the dining-room in a meditative mood; “I am afraid, daddy, that you’ll find it hard to be gentle to some men to-night! However, we shall see.”
Ringing the bell, he stood with his back to the fire, gazing at the ceiling. The summons was answered by the gardener, who also performed the functions of footman and man-of-all-work at the parsonage.
“Simon, I am going out, and may not be home till late. I want either you or Robin to sit up for me.”
“Very well, sir.”
“And,” continued the youth, with an air of offhand gravity, “I shall be obliged to sit up working well into the morning, so you may have a cup of strong coffee ready for me. Wait until I ring for it—perhaps about two in the morning. I shall sit in the dining-room, but don’t bring it until I ring. Mind that, for I can’t stand interruption—as you know.”
“Yes, sir.”
Simon knew his imperious young master too well to make any comment on his commands. He returned, therefore, to the kitchen, told the cook of the order he had received to sit up and take Master Harry’s coffee to him when he should ring, and made arrangements with Robin to sit up and help him to enliven his vigil with a game of draughts.
Having thus made his arrangements, Harry Stronghand went out to enjoy a walk. He was a tremendous walker—thought nothing of twenty or thirty miles, and rather preferred to walk at night than during the day, especially when moon and stars were shining. Perhaps it was a dash of poetry in his nature that induced this preference.
About midnight he returned, went straight to the dining-room, and, entering, shut the door, while Simon retired to his own regions and resumed his game with Robin.