CHAPTER XXXII.
“DICK IS TO BE OUR REAL BROTHER.”
Never was a father more devoted to his son’s company than Mr. Mayne was that day. Dick’s cigar was hardly alight before his father had joined him. When Dick grew weary of throwing stones aimlessly at imaginary objects, and voted the beach slow, Mr. Mayne proposed a walk with alacrity. They dined together,—not talking much, it is true, for Dick was still sulky, and his father tired and inclined to headache, but keeping up a show of conversation for the waiter’s benefit. But when that 233 functionary had retired, and the wine was on the table, Dick made no further effort to be agreeable, but placed himself in the window-seat and stared moodily at the sea, while his father watched him and drank his wine in silence.
Mr. Mayne was fighting against drowsiness valiantly.
Dick knew this, and was waiting for an opportunity to make his escape.
“Had we not better ring for lights and coffee?” asked his father, as he felt the first ominous sensations stealing over him.
“Not just yet. I feel rather disposed for a nap myself; and it is a shame to shut out the moonlight,” returned that wicked Dick, calling up a fib to his aid, and closing his eyes as he spoke.
The bait took. In another five minutes Mr. Mayne was nodding in earnest, and Dick on tiptoe had just softly closed the door behind him, and was taking his straw hat from its peg.