“I wish you’d play somewhere else, dear. It makes me so uneasy when you are down by the river.”
“Play!” says Percy rather scornfully; “I don’t play there—I work!”
“I fear you are neglecting one sort of work for another, my boy,” says Mr Rimbolt; “we never got through Virgil yet, you know—at least, you didn’t. I’ve been through three books since you deserted our readings.”
“Oh, Virgil’s jolly enough,” replied the boy; “I’m going to finish it as soon as my experiments are over.”
“What experiments?”
“Oh, it’s a dodge to—I’d show it you as soon as it’s finished. It’s nearly done now, and it will be a tremendous tip.”
This is all that can be extracted from the youthful man of science—at least, by the elders. To Raby, when the family retires to the drawing-room, the boy is more confidential, and she once more captivates him by entering heart and soul into his project and entreating to be made a party in the experiments.
“I’d see,” says he; “but mind you don’t go chattering!”
Mr Rimbolt gravitates as usual to his library, and here it is that half an hour later his son presents himself, still in his working garb.
“Father,” says the hopeful, “please can you give me some money?”