“I dare say. I never saw but one boat race. That was the time you—we—the American crew beat us—them.”
“You’re getting mixed, ’Ighness!” laughed Nick. “You don’t know whether you’re United States or English.”
“It’s a bit confusing,” agreed Hugh. “Of course, I really am English, because my father is English and I was born over there. But sometimes it seems awfully much as though I weren’t, you know! Since I’ve been here I feel as if I really belonged, if you know——”
“If I know what you mean; I do, old man. Just the same, Hugh, you’d be in an awful mess if we ever went to war with England, wouldn’t you? What would you do then?”
Hugh shook his head soberly. “I don’t know, really. I fancy, though, I’d stick with dad. I couldn’t do anything else, could I?”
“I don’t see how you could. Wouldn’t it be touching when you and I met on the trampled field of battle? ‘Why, hello, ’Ighness!’ I’d say. ‘How’s the boy? Take that!’ And I’d biff you one on the side of the head. And you’d say, smiling pleasantly: ‘Well, well, if it isn’t me old friend Nick! I’m chawmed to meet you, Nick. Pardon me, but I’ve got to hand you this!’ And then you’d stick a bayonet into my ribs. Or, no, you wouldn’t, either, because you’d be an officer, I guess; maybe Field Marshal Ordway; and so you’d let me have it with a sword! And then you’d get the Victoria Cross for bravery.”
“Maybe you’d be an officer, too,” Hugh suggested, smiling.
“Oh, I should! I’d be General Blake, Commander of the United States Expeditionary Forces; and so, instead of beating you over the bean with the butt end of my rusty trifle—er, trusty rifle, I’d slash off your head with my bejeweled sword. There’d be some style to that, eh?”
“Don’t see what good the V. C. would do me under the circumstances,” objected Hugh. “I’m not keen for that programme, Nick. I say, isn’t it getting late? Hadn’t we better nip it?”
“Almost half-past four, by ginger! Never mind, we’ve got the current with us going back, and you can rest up. How are the shoulders and sturdy biceps, Duke?”