" "You're a noble-hearted little fellow, Thames," rejoined Wood, casting a look of pride and affection at his adopted son, whose head he gently patted; "and give promise of a glorious manhood. “I wish this hadn’t turned up to-day of all days. But I’m not a slut either, if that’s what you think. “Can I bring you anything, sir—a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You’ll excuse me, sir, but you haven’t touched your coffee. And it’s like the petals falling from a flower. The light!—the light!" Astounded at his cries, Thames sprang towards him. Then he rallied, smiling a little. Their conversation was conducted in the flash language, and, though unintelligible to Wood, was easily comprehended by this companion, who learnt, to her dismay, that the wounded man had received his hurt from her son, whose courage and dexterity formed the present subject of their discourse. “Perhaps that is only sleeping,” he said. "But you've done well to trust me.
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