small boy standing there, his brown eyes wide open, his hands deep in his pockets; and the thought came to him also that a great deal of power might, perhaps, through the caprice of a proud, self-indulgent old man, be given to him now, and that if his young nature were not a simple and generous one, it might be the worst thing that could happen, not only for others, but for himself.
"And what would you do in such a case?" demanded the Earl.
Fauntleroy drew a little nearer, and laid one hand on his knee, with the most confiding air of good comradeship.
"If I were very rich," he said, "and not only just a little boy, I should let him stay, and give him the things for his children; but then, I am only a boy." Then, after a second's pause, in which his face brightened visibly, "you can do anything, can't you?" he said.
"Humph!" said my lord, staring at him. "That's your opinion, is it?" And he was not displeased either.
"I mean you can give any one anything," said Fauntleroy. "Who's Newick?"
"He is my agent," answered the earl, "and some of my tenants are not over-fond of him."
"Are you going to write him a letter now?" inquired Fauntleroy. "Shall I bring you the pen and ink? I can take the game off this table."
It plainly had not for an instant occurred to him that Newick would be allowed to do his worst.
The Earl paused a moment, still looking at him. "Can you write?" he asked.
"Yes," answered Cedric, "but not very well."
"Move the things from the table," commanded my lord, "and bring the pen and ink, and a sheet of paper from my desk."
Mr. Mordaunt's interest began to increase. Fauntleroy did as he was told very deftly. In a few moments, the sheet of paper, the big inkstand, and the pen were ready.
