red-handed.

''Twas only a nut,' he said sulkily.

'You naughty boy! Will you never learn how to behave at table? Come here,
sir. Ah, I see; as I suspected. You did not shave this morning. Go
straight to bed after you have finished your tea. How dare you disobey
me, you wicked boy!'

Gable knuckled his eyes with vigour, and began to snivel. He hated to
have a beard on his chin, but would put off shaving longer than Mrs.
Hardy thought consistent with perfect neatness. The ability to shave
himself was the one manly accomplishment Gable had learned in a long
life.

This ludicrous incident had not served to draw Harry's thoughts from his
project. All his life he had seen his Uncle Jonnie treated as a child,
and there was nothing incongruous in the situation, even 'when the
grey-haired boy was rated for neglecting to shave or sent supperless to
bed for similar sins of omission or commission. To Mrs. Hardy also it was
a simple serious business of domestic government. Ever since she was ten
years old Uncle John, who was many years her senior, had been her baby
brother and her charge, and although gifted with a good sense of humour,
the necessity of admonishing him did not interfere with the gravity of
mind she had brought to bear on the former conversation.

'Mr. Holden was an old friend of your father's, Henry,' she said.

'I know,' Harry replied. 'They were mates at Buninyong and Bendigo. I'll
remind him of that.'