"Now, Priscilla," began her father, "tell Mr. Davenant Carter and Mr. Mant what happened in the castle, and the names of any of the bad boys who stole your pet lamb."
"Wasn't no lamb—Donald was a sheep, and he could fight," began Toady Lion, without relevance, but with his usual eagerness to hear the sound of his own piping voice. In his zeal he took a step forward and so brought himself on the level of the eye of his general, who from the pillow darted upon him a look so freezing that Sir Toady Lion instantly fell back into the ranks, and clutched Prissy's skirt with such energy as almost to stagger her severe deportment.
"Now," said the Chief Constable of Bordershire, "tell me what were the names of the assailants."
He was listening to the tale as told by Prissy with his note-book ready in his hand, occasionally biting at the butt of the pencil, and anon wetting the lead in his mouth, under the mistaken idea that by so doing he improved its writing qualities.
"I think," began Prissy, "that they were——"
"A-chew!" came from the bed and from under the bandages with a sudden burst of sound. Field-Marshal Napoleon Smith had sneezed. That was all.
But Prissy started. She knew what it meant. It was the well-known signal not to commit herself under examination.
Her father looked round at the open windows.
"Are you catching cold with the draught, Hugh John?" he asked kindly.
"I think I have a little cold," said the wily General, who did not wish all the windows to be promptly shut.