"Yes—fetch him here, and I'll talk the matter over wud him."
"But——"
"Either you fetch him here or I send fur the police."
The two young men stared at each other, then George Fleet nodded to them:
"You'd better go. The dad'll be better than a policeman anyhow. Try and smooth him down a bit on the way."
"Right you are"—and they reluctantly moved off, leaving their comrade in the enemy's hands.
However, Reuben's whole manner had changed. His attitude towards George Fleet became positively cordial. He took him into the kitchen, and made Maude give him some tea. He himself paced nervously up and down, a queer look of exaltation sometimes passing over his face. One would never have taken him for the same man as the old fellow who an hour ago had huddled weak and almost senile in his chair, broken under his life's last tragedy. He felt young, strong, energetic, a soldier again.
The Squire soon arrived. Reuben had him shown into the parlour, and insisted on seeing him alone.
"You finish your tea," he said to George, "and bring some more, Maudie, for these gentlemen," nodding kindly to the two young men, who stared at him as if they thought he had taken leave of his senses.
In the parlour, Sir Eustace greeted him with mingled nervousness and irritation.