"You wicked boy! You wicked little, untruthful boy," he said.
William looked after him. "He's my prisoner an' they've let him go," he said aggrievedly.
Ten minutes later he wandered into the smoking room. Mr. Brown sat miserably in a chair by a dying fire beneath a poor light.
"Is he still bleating there?" he said. "Is this still the only corner where I can be sure of keeping my sanity? Is he reading his beastly poetry upstairs? Is he——"
"He's goin'," said William moodily. "He's goin' before dinner. They've sent for his cab. He's mad 'cause I said he was a smuggler. He was a smuggler 'cause I saw him doin' it, an' I took him prisoner an' he got mad an' he's goin'. An' they're mad at me 'cause I took him prisoner. You'd think they'd be glad at me catchin' smugglers, but they're not," bitterly. "An' Mother says she'll tell you an' you'll be mad too an'——"
Mr. Brown raised his hand.
"One minute, my son," he said. "Your story is confused. Do I understand that Mr. Jones is going and that you are the cause of his departure?"
"Yes, 'cause he got mad 'cause I said he was a smuggler an' he was a smuggler an' they're mad at me now, an'——"
Mr. Brown laid a hand on his son's shoulder.
"There are moments, William," he said, "when I feel almost affectionate towards you."