Part 24 (1/2)

”I won't do it again,” said his father deprecatingly. ”I apologise.”

Aymer gravely bowed his head and the subject was dropped. But when they were alone that evening, Mr. Aston reverted to it.

”What are you going to do with Sam Sartin?” he asked, ”and why are you doing it?”

”Sam must settle the first question himself,” said Aymer, idly drawing appalling pictures of steamrollers on the fly-leaf of a book, ”as to the second--” he paused in his drawing, put the book down and turned to his father.

”Christopher's got the makings of a rabid socialist in him. If he's not given good data to go on he will be a full disciple when he's twenty-one, all theories and dreams, caught in a mesh of words. I don't want that. It's natural too, for, after all, Christopher is not of the People, any more than--than his mother was.” He examined his pencil critically. ”She always credited them with the fine aspirations and pure pa.s.sions of her own soul, instead of allowing them the very reasonable and just aspirations and ambitions that they have and should be able to reach. Sam may be an exception, but I don't think he is. I'm quite ready to give Christopher a free hand to help him, provided he knows what he wants himself.”

”To provide an object lesson for Christopher?”

”Yes, precisely.”

”Is it quite fair on Sam?”

Aymer looked up quickly.

”He benefits anyway.”

”Possibly; but you do not care about that.”

”Christopher does.”

”Ah, yes. Christopher does. That is worth considering. Otherwise----”

”Otherwise?”

”How far are we justified in experimenting with our fellow-creatures, I wonder?”

CHAPTER XII

It was a day of expectancy--and promise--of blackthorn breaking into snowy showers, and of meadows richly green, blue sky and white cloud--and a sense of racing, headlong life joyously tremulous over the earth.

The boys had met at Paddington Station, Sam Sartin by no means abashed at his own appearance in an old suit of Christopher's, and wearing, in deference to his friend's outspoken wishes, a decorous dark-blue tie and un.o.btrusive s.h.i.+rt. He looked what he was--a good, solid, respectable working lad out for a holiday. Excitement, if he felt it, was well suppressed, surprise at the new world of luxury--they travelled down first--was equally carefully concealed. The code of manners in which he was reared was stringent in this particular.

Christopher, on the contrary, was in high spirits. Sam had watched him come down the platform, out of the corner of his eye, with a queer sense of proud possession. He would have liked to proclaim to the world that the young master there, who walked like a prince, was his own particular pal. Yet he pretended not to see him till Christopher clapped him on the shoulder with a warm greeting.

”I've got the tickets. Come on,” said the giver of the treat. ”I say, what a day, Sammie--if it's good in London what will it be in the country?”

”Cold, I shouldn't wonder. What's the matter with London?” said the c.o.c.kney sarcastically.

”Old Bricks and Mortar,” retorted Christopher gaily. ”You'll know what's the matter with it when you come back. It's too jolly small.”

”Big enough for me. But the country's well enough to play in. I say, Mr. Christopher, I've been thinking, we may not find any boats. It's early.”

”Oh, I've seen to that,” said Christopher with the faintest suspicion of lordliness in his voice. ”I wrote to the man I know at Maidenhead to have a boat ready--a good one.”

Sam grinned. ”My, what a head-piece we've got, to be sure.”