Syd Belton

"No, you mustn't. I won't have him punished. I like the young dog's spirit. We said he should go to sea. He said he didn't want to go, and sooner than do what he didn't like he cut and run, till he found out he was making a fool of himself, and when he did find it out he came and said so like a man."

"Well, yes," said the captain, "he did confess, but this must not be pa.s.sed over lightly."

"Bah! Tchah! Pah! let it be. You see if he don't come the humble to-morrow morning, and want us to let him go to sea."

"Think so?"

"Sure of it, my dear boy. I'm not angry with him a bit. He showed that he had some spirit in running away."

"And that he was a cur in sneaking back."

"Steady there," cried the admiral, "nothing of the kind. I say it took more pluck to come back and face us, and own he was in the wrong, than to run away."

The captain sat slowly sipping his port, and the subject was discussed no more.

Then at last bedtime came.

Syd was seated in his room alone. He had washed and changed his clothes, expecting moment by moment to be summoned to hear his fate, but the hours had pa.s.sed, and he was sick and faint with hunger and exhaustion.

As he sat there he heard the various familiar noises in the house, each of which told him what was going on. He recognised the jingling of gla.s.ses on a wooden tray, which he knew meant the butler clearing the dining-room. He heard the closing of the library door. Then there was a long silence, followed by the rattling of shutters, the shooting of bolts, the noise made by bars, and after another lapse, the murmur of deep voices in the hall, the clink of silver candlesticks on the marble slab, and a deep cough.

"They're gone up to bed," said Sydney to himself, and wearily thinking that he would not be spoken to, and that he had better patiently try to forget his hunger in sleep, so as to be ready for the painful interview of the morning, he rose to undress.

But he did not begin. He stood thinking about the events of the past twenty-four hours, and like many another, felt that he would have given anything to recall the past.

For he was very miserable, and his misery found vent once more as he was asking himself what would be his fate in the world.

"Yes, I've behaved like a wretched,

"Pst! Syd!"

He started and looked round, to see that the door had been slightly opened, and that his uncle's great red face was thrust into the room.

"Yes, sir," he faltered--he dared not say, "Yes, uncle."

"Had anything to eat?" whispered the old admiral.

"No, sir."

The door closed, and the boy's spirits rose a little, for with all his fierceness it was evident that the old admiral was kindly disposed. But his spirits went down again. Uncle Tom was only a visitor, and his father was horribly stern and harsh. His voice had thrilled the boy, who again and again had wondered what was to be his fate.

"I'll tell uncle how sorry I am, and ask him to side with me," thought Sydney; and he had just made up his mind to speak to him if he came again, and surely he would after coming to ask him about the food, when the door-handle rattled slightly, and the boy involuntarily turned to meet his uncle just as the door was pressed open a little, and he found himself face to face with his father, who remained perfectly silent for a few moments as Syd shrank away.

"Hungry, my lad?" he said at last.

"Yes, father--very."

"Hah!"

The door closed, and the prisoner was left once more to his own thoughts.

CHAPTER TEN.

"I can't bully him to-night--a young dog!" said the captain. "He must be half-starved. I wonder whether Broughton has gone to bed."

He went down slowly to the library without a light, meaning to summon the butler and make him prepare a tray.

But meanwhile Admiral Belton had provided himself with a chamber candlestick and stolen softly down-stairs, through the baize door at one side of the hall, and along the pa.s.sage that led to the kitchen.

"Can't leave the poor lad to starve," he muttered; "and I dare say I shall find out the larder by the smell."

He chuckled to himself as he softly unfastened a door.

"Nice game this for one of his Majesty's old officers of the fleet," he said. "Wonder what they'd say at the club if they saw me?"

The door pa.s.sed, he had no difficulty in finding the kitchen, for there was a pleasant chirping of crickets to greet his ear; a kitcheny smell that was oniony and unmistakable, and a few paces farther on his feet were on stones that were sanded, and all at once there was a loud pop where he put down his foot.

He lowered the light and saw that black beetles were scouring away in all directions.

"c.o.c.kroaches, by George!" he muttered. "Now where can the larder be?"

There were three doors about, and he went to the first.

"Hah!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, with a sniff. "Here we are; no doubt about it."

He slipped a bolt, lifted a latch, stepped in and stepped out again quickly, then closed the door.

"Scullery!" he snarled. "Bah! what an idiot I do seem, prowling about here."

He crossed the kitchen, slaying two more black beetles with his broad feet in transit, and opened another door. This he found led into a cool pa.s.sage, along one side of which was a wirework kind of cage.

"Here we are at last," he said; and opening the door, he found himself in presence of part of a cold leg of mutton, a well-carved piece of beef, and a cold roast pheasant.

"Now then for a plate," he muttered; and this he secured by sliding some tartlets off one on to the shelf.

"Why, I've no knife," he muttered, as he cast his eyes upon the cold roast pheasant. "I must have some bread too."

A huge brown pan on the stone floor suggested the home of the loaves, and on raising the lid he found a half loaf, which he broke in two, secured one piece, and transferred it to the plate.

"Hang it all, where is there a knife?" he muttered. "One can't cut beef or mutton without a knife. 'Tisn't even as if one had got one's sword.

Here--I know."

He seized the pheasant.

"Humph! too much for a boy. Don't know, though; dare say he could finish it. Wouldn't do him good. I'll--that's it."