Seldom were the conversational powers of the Colonel more brilliantly exercised than through the dinner hour that evening, but with all he could do and with the loyal backing of his wife—for these two never failed to play up to each other’s lead—the haggard face of the boy had the effect upon the little company of a ghost at a feast.
“Well, he knows the whole story now,” said the Colonel when the children had said good-night. “He wanted to go home tonight.”
“And what’s this about Asa?” enquired Augusta. “As far as I could gather from Peg’s dramatic recital they were all in a general mêlée.”
The Colonel’s face brightened.
“The boy is a wonder, a perfect wonder, cool as cress and a whirlwind in attack.”
“But what happened?” demanded Augusta, whose sporting instincts were deeply intrigued by Peg’s version of the encounter between the boys. Nothing loth, the Colonel indulged himself in a graphic description of the battle.
“A clear win, beautifully generalled and superbly handled! Like an old ringer he was. The boy has it in him. And were it not for the horrible fact that that young beast Asa had blurted out the wretched story, doubtless with his own beastly embellishments, we should have all been celebrating tonight. As it is, I know that boy is not sleeping, and I tell you, Augusta, I am quite sick about it. The boy will go to his father. Nothing under heaven will keep him back. He loves to be here, but if it tears his heart up by the roots he will go. The very wrong-doing of his father is a kind of lure. If people are down on his father, all the more the boy will be at his side. And, b’gad, I think the more of him for it. Tomorrow morning the boy leaves us forever.”
“Why, in all the world?”
“Point of honour. His father’s shame will be his.”
“And do you mean to say he will be tied for life to his father’s Indian wife and half-breed family?”