Barney, the old gardener, had been round the garden that evening, and
had paused thoughtfully close to the tree where he had had his adventure
the night before; and as he went over the various phases of his little
struggle and his fall, thinking out how he would have proceeded had he
got hold of that boy again, he fancied he heard whispering.
The fancy became certainty, and creeping inch by inch closer to the
palings, without making a rustle among the shrubs, he soon made himself
certain of who was on the other side.
Barney's face did not beam. It never had done so, but it brightened
with a grin as he slowly and cautiously backed out of the shrubs on to
the path, stepped across on to the grassy verge, and set off at a trot
in true sailor fashion up the garden toward the house to give the alarm.
"Nay, I won't," he said, as he neared the door. "They two may have cut
and run again before I get them two old orsifers round outside. Sure to
have gone, for the skipper goes along like a horse, while the admiral's
more like a helephant on his pins. Scare any two boys away, let alone
them. Lor', if I had on'y brought that there bit o' rope!"
But Barney had left it in his cottage; and as he reached the gate he
stood to consider.
"Now if I goes down here from the gate, they'll hear me, and be scared
away. I know--t'otherwise."
Chuckling to himself, he circumnavigated, as he would have called it,
the park-like grounds of the Heronry, a task which necessitated the
climbing of two high fences and the forcing a way through a dense
quickset hedge.
But these obstacles did not check the old sailor, who cleared the
palings, reached the road at the other side, panting, stopped to get his
breath, and then crept along through the darkness on the tips of his
toes, treating the tall palings as if they were the bulwarks of a ship,
and by degrees edged himself up nearer and nearer till he was able to
pounce upon the fugitives in triumph.
Pan uttered a howl, dropped down, and lay quite still; but as the
ex-boatswain grappled Sydney by the coat, the lad wrenched himself free
and kept his captor at bay.
"No, no," cried Barney; "you don't get away. Hoi! help!"
"Hold your noise, you old stupid," cried Sydney. "Who wants to get
away? Keep your hands off."
"Nay, I won't. I've got you, and I'll keep you."
"I tell you I was going home, only Pan wouldn't stir."
"Wouldn't stir, wouldn't he? We'll see 'bout that. Now it's of no use,
Master Syd. You're my prisoner, so give in and cry quarter."
"I tell you I have given in; and once more, Barney, I warn you, I'm in
such a temper I shall hit you."
"Yah! hit away, Midget, who's afeard! Do you s'render?"
"Yes, yes."
"Then you're my prisoner."
"Nonsense! Make Pan come."
"Make him come? Yes, I just will, my lad. But, I say, to think o' you
two cutting yourselves adrift, and going off like that!"
"Don't talk so, but bring Pan along. You needn't be afraid, I shall not
try to go."
"Par--role, lad?"
"Yes, parole," said Sydney.
"Ah, well, you are a gent, and I can trust you," said Barney. "Now
then," he added, as he stirred up his son with the toe of his natty
evening shoe; "get up."
"No, no, no," whined Pan.
"If you don't get up I'll kick you over the palings. Get up, you ugly
young lubber, or I'll--"
"Oh!" Pan winced, and rose to his knees, eagerly scanning his father's
hands in the gloom to see if the rope's-end was visible.
"And, look here, Barney," said Sydney, quietly, "you are not to hit
Pan."
"Not what, my lad?"
"You are not to rope's-end him."
"Who says so?"
"I do."
"Oh, you do, do you? Well, look here, my lad, he's hurt my feelings so
that I'm going to lock myself up with him in his bedroom, and then I'm
going to skin him."
"Oh, oh!" cried Pan.
"You are not going to touch him, but to bring him before my father."
"'Fore the skipper?" said Barney, in a puzzled voice. "Well, yes, my
lad, he's in full command. There is something in that."
"But you shouted, and said some one was coming. Who is it?"
"Oh, that was only a manoofer, Master Syd, just to scare you into
s'rending."
"Then there is no one coming?"
"It's par--role, mind."
"Yes, parole, of course."
"And you won't try to cut and run again?"
"No--no!" cried Sydney, impatiently.
"No one. Now then you, Pan, my man, hyste yerself on them two legs o'
yourn. On'y you wait till I'm a-handlin' that there bit o' rope."
"You touch him if you dare!" cried Sydney. "My father will punish him."
"Oh, Master Syd!" cried Pan.
"Hold your row, will you, you lubber," growled Barney, seizing his son
by the collar, setting him on his legs, and giving him a good shake at
the same time.
Pan uttered a low moan, and shuffling his feet along the gravel, allowed
himself to be led towards the gate.
Sydney shivered as he felt that he was approaching sentence.
"Is my father in the dining-room?"
"Yes, Master Sydney.--Here you, lift up them pretty hoofs o' yours, will
yer!"
"Is my uncle with him?"
"Yes, Master Syd."
"Have they been trying to find us?"
"No, Master Syd. The skipper said as if you was such a young cur as to
go and disgrace yourself like that 'ere by running away and desarting
the King's colours, he wouldn't stir a step arter yer."
"Oh!" groaned Sydney to himself. Then in a whisper, "What did my uncle
say?"
"Said Amen to it, and that he'd been fool enough to give you the money
to go with."
"No, no, Barney, I didn't take his money."
"Ah, well, I don't know nothing 'bout that. But here's the gate. On
you go first."
"No; go on first with Pan."
"And let you shoot off."
"Am I not on parole?"
"Ay, ay. Forgetted that. Now then, you swab; on with you."
As Barney led the way towards the front door, Sydney noticed that there
was a light in the dining-room, whose windows were open, the weather
being still warm and fine.
"Stop, Barney," he said, after a sudden thought, "we'll go in there
through the window."
"Nay, my lad, nay," said the boatswain; "it'll look as if I was spellin'
arter a glass o' wine."
"Never mind. I'll go first, and you bring in Pan afterwards."
"Oh, Master Syd, don't."
"Yah! you swab, be quiet!" said Barney, giving his unfortunate son
another shake. "Wait till the admiral's pronounced court-martial on
you; and then--"
He did not finish, but followed close behind Sydney, who drew a long
breath, walked boldly up to the open French window, looked in a moment
on where the two fine old veterans were sitting talking sadly together,
and then stepped in.
"What!" roared the admiral, rising from his chair, and oversetting his
glass of port.
"You here, sir!" cried Captain Belton. "Why have you come back?"
"Because I've been thinking all night, father," said Syd, quietly, "and
I've found out I was a fool."