“From G. Richardson, London. I shall reach Templeton at 3:5 this afternoon. Meet me, if you can.”
“Huzzah, Georgie!” said he, as he returned to his seat. “Father’s coming down by the 3:5. Let’s all go and meet him.”
The “Firm” said they would, and, accordingly, that afternoon after dinner the trio sallied forth in great spirits and good-humour to give the anxious father a reception.
With the easy memory of youth, they forgot all about the probable object of his visit; or, if they remembered it, it was with a sort of passing feeling of relief that the Tom White “row” was now as good as over—at any rate, as far as they were concerned.
When Mr Richardson, haggard and anxious, descended from the carriage, it was a decided shock to encounter the beaming countenance of his son and hear his light-hearted greeting.
“Hullo, father—jolly you’ve come! Old White’s cab is bagged, but Swisher’s got a good horse to go. Here’s Georgie and Coote—you know.”
The bewildered gentleman greeted his son’s friends kindly, and then, disclaiming all intention of taking anybody’s cab, drew his son aside.
“What is all this, my boy? Your mother and I almost broke our hearts over your letter.”
“Oh, it’s all serene—really, father,” said the boy, a little disturbed by his father’s anxious tones. “We really wouldn’t have sent if the magistrate hadn’t said we’d better—would we, Georgie?”
“No; he said that was our only chance,” replied Georgie.