“Indeed!” said Mr Huntingdon dryly and sarcastically, after a pause of astonishment; “and may I ask where the three hundred guineas are to come from? for I suppose the borrowed horse will have to be paid for.”
“Father,” said Walter humbly, and with tears in his eyes and a tremor in his voice, “I know the horse must be paid for, because it was not Saunders’s own; he borrowed it for me, and I know that he cannot afford the money. But it’s an exaggeration that three hundred guineas; the horse was really worth about a hundred pounds.”
“It makes no matter,” replied his father, but now with less of irritation in his voice, “whether it was worth three hundred guineas or one hundred pounds. I want to know who is going to pay for it, for certainly I am not.”
“You must stop it out of my allowance,” said Walter sorrowfully.
“And how many years will it take to pay off the debt, then, I should like to know?” asked his father bitterly.
Again there was a few moments’ silence. But now Amos stepped forward once more, and said quietly, “Father, I will take the debt upon myself.”
“You, Amos!” exclaimed all his three hearers, but in very different tones.
Poor Walter fairly broke down, sobbing like a child, and then threw himself into his brother’s arms and kissed him warmly. Mr Huntingdon was taken quite aback, and tried in vain to hide his emotion. Miss Huntingdon wept bright tears of gladness, for she saw that Amos was making progress with his father, and getting nearer to his heart.
“There, then,” said her brother with trembling voice, “we must make the best of a bad job.—Walter, don’t let’s have any more steeplechases.—Amos, my dear boy, I’ve said I wouldn’t pay, so I must stick to it, but we’ll make up the loss to you in some way or other.”
“All right, dear father,” replied Amos, hardly able to speak for gladness. Never for years past had Mr Huntingdon called him “dear.” That one word from his father was worth the whole of the hundred pounds to him twice over.