“You have a boy—a boy who is called Donald—Donald Alden, I think.”
Uncle David nodded. “Be so kind as to step inside. The day is bleak.”
The soldier crossed the threshold, and David Hollis closed the door and stood stiffly with his hand on the latch. Glen Drake had stopped in the act of filling his pipe. Aunt Martha’s lips were pursed, and her eyes were wide open. For a moment or two no one spoke. Then the soldier looked at Don, who had hastily swallowed the last of the doughnut. “This boy,” he said, “saved my life yesterday. I should be a most ungrateful man if I allowed the act to pass without a word. Be sure that I am grateful. Harry Hawkins is my name, private in His Majesty’s 43rd Regiment. If I can be of any service to you, Master Donald,” he added with a smile, “I shall be indebted to you until I have performed it.”
“Thank you, sir,” Don replied. “I had no hope of reward when I plunged from the dock.”
The man smiled faintly and turned as if to go.
“You and your fellows might act with a little more consideration for folks who wish only to be left alone in justice,” said Uncle David.
“I am a soldier; I obey my King,” the man replied and stepped to the door. “I wish you all good day.”
David Hollis closed the door behind him.
“I like that fellow for three things,” said Glen Drake abruptly. “He’s grateful to Don here, as he should be; he didn’t offer the lad money for saving his life; and he said what he had to say and then made tracks.”
Aunt Martha nodded and sighed, but Uncle David kept a stubborn silence.