Tommy felt reassured, and the three entered the old hall, hung with trophies of gun and rod and chase.
"A bachelor's abode," laughed the young man. "We're wedded to sport—no use for girls here, eh dad?"
The squire laughed wheezily.
"The dog," he chuckled, "the young dog."
Presently the squire led them to the dining room, where a bountiful meal was spread—so bountiful that Tommy, already predisposed for friendship, rapidly thawed into intimacy.
Both the squire and his son seemed intent on amusing him, and Tommy took the evident effort for the unaccomplished deed—for, in truth, the stories that they told were almost unintelligible to him, though, to the others, they appeared humorous enough.
Presently the squire grew even more affectionate. He had always loved boys, he said, and Tommy was not to forget it. He was a stern enemy, but a good friend, and Tommy was not to forget it. He would always be proud to shake hands with Tommy, wherever he met him, and Tommy was to keep this in remembrance.
Presently he retired to the sofa, with a cigar, which he was continually dropping.
The young man winked, genially, at Tommy.
"He always gets sleepy about this time," he explained.