"May I come in, sir?"
"Yes; come in, Broughton," said Syd, recognising the voice, and the
butler entered with one hand bound up.
"That, sir? Oh, nothing, sir. Only got it in the scrimmage last night.
So glad to see you back again, Master Syd."
"Oh, don't talk about it, Broughton," groaned the boy. "My father
down?"
"No, sir; but he's getting up, and your uncle too. I was to come and
tell you to make haste."
"Yes, I'll make haste," said Syd; and as soon as he was alone he began
to dress hurriedly, with every thought of the blackest hue, and a
sensation of misery and depression assailing him that was horrible.
He quite started as he went to the glass to brush his hair, for his face
was white and drawn as if he had been ill. But there was very little
more time for thought. The breakfast-bell rang, and he hurried down
into the dining-room, glad to get off the staircase and through the
hall, where one of the housemaids was still busy, and ready to look at
him curiously as the boy who ran away from home--and came back.
Syd thought of that latter, for he knew but too well the servants might
think it was brave--almost heroic and daring--to run away; to come back
seemed very weak and small.
In those few moments Syd wished that ten years would glide away, and all
the trouble belong to the past.
His father was in a chair by the window ready to look up sharply, and
then let his eye fall upon the book he was reading without uttering a
word.
Broughton came in bearing a tray with the coffee and a covered dish or
two ready to place upon the table, then he left, and Syd was alone again
with his father.
"What will he say?" thought the culprit; but he could not decide in
which form his verbal castigation would come.
As he sat glancing at his father from time to time, Syd noted that there
was a scratch upon his forehead, and that a bit of sticking-plaster was
on one of his knuckles, proofs these of the severity of the past night's
struggle.
Then came a weary waiting interval before there was a deep-toned cough
outside the door.
"Hah!" ejaculated the captain, rising from his seat as the door opened,
and the old admiral stumped into the room.
"Morning, Harry," he said; "morning, Syd."
He closed the door behind him and came forward, and then, odd as it may
sound in connection with one who was weak, unwell, and suffering from so
much mental trouble, Sydney burst into a hearty fit of laughter. He
tried to check it; he knew that under the circumstances it was in the
worst of taste; he felt that he would excite his father's anger, and
that then he would be furious; but he laughed all the same, and the more
he tried the more violent and lasting the fits grew.
"Sydney!" cried his father, and then there was a pause followed by a
hearty "Ha, ha, ha!" as the captain joined in, and the admiral gently
patted his own face first on one side and then on the other.
"Yes," he said, quietly; "you may well laugh. I look a nice guy, don't
I?"
"Oh, uncle! I beg your pardon--but--oh, oh, oh, I can't stop laughing,"
cried Sydney.
"Well, get it done, boy," said the old gentleman, "for I want my
breakfast. Oh, here is Broughton."
The butler entered with a rack of hot dry toast, and as he advanced to
the table the admiral exclaimed--
"Now, sir, look here; you've made a nice mess of my phiz. What have you
got to say to this?"
The butler raised his eyes as he set down the toast, gazed full in the
old gentleman's face, his own seemed frozen solid for a moment, and
then, clapping the napkin he carried to his mouth to smother his
laughter, he turned and fled.
"And that son of a sea-cook begged my pardon last night, and said he was
sorry. Yes, I am a sight. Look at my eyes, Harry, swollen up and
black. There's a nose for you; and one lip cut. Why, I never got it so
bad in action. And all your fault, Syd. There, I forgive you, boy."
"Well, it's impossible to give this boy a serious lecture now, Tom,"
said the captain, wiping his eyes, as he passed the coffee.
"Of course. Who wants serious lectures?" said the admiral, testily.
"The boy did wrong, and he came back and said he was sorry for it.
You've told me scores of times that you never flogged a man who was
really sorry for getting into a scrape. Give me some of that ham, Syd,
and go on eating yourself. I say, rum old punch I look, don't I?"
Syd made no reply, but filled his uncle's plate, and the breakfast went
on nearly to the end before the topic dreaded was introduced.
"Well, Sydney," said his father, rather sadly, "so I suppose I must let
you be a doctor?"
"Wish he was one now," cried the admiral. "I'd make him try to make me
fit to be seen. Humph! doctor, eh? No; I don't think I shall try to be
ill to give you a job, Syd; but I'm very glad, my boy, that you did not
take that money."