hower of words and
shoes, which latter came pattering out into the yard as a shrill voice
cried--

"A nasty, lazy, good-for-nothing young scamp--always playing with that
dog instead of doing your work. Not half clean--not fit to be seen."

Syd drew back, thinking to himself that Pan could not be much happier
than he was himself with the red-faced cook, who ruled over all the
servants, to play tyrant to the boy as well.

"Now what could two lads do if they went right away?" mused Syd. "We
couldn't go abroad without going to sea. I don't think I want to be a
soldier, and we're not big enough if I did. I know--we'd go to London.
People seek their fortunes there."

He seated himself beneath the walnut tree to think it out, but somehow
the idea of running away did not seem bright. It was less than a
hundred miles to London by the coach-road, and if they walked all the
way it did not seem likely that they would have any adventures.

Syd felt in despair, for life seemed as if it must be a terribly dull
place without adventures.

He thought he would not run away for two reasons. One that it would
look cowardly; the other that it did not look tempting.

"There does not seem any chance of meeting with adventures unless you go
to sea," he said to himself. "I wish there was no sea in the world."

A loud voice from the other end of the garden, followed by another, took
his attention.

"Poor old Pan catching it again," mused Syd. "Everybody seems to scold
him."

The dull sound of a blow, a howl, and then a rushing noise explained by
the appearance of Panama Strake, who was dashing helter-skelter across
the garden, as regardless of flower-bed and tree as a young colt that
had broken through a hedge.

"Hi! Pan, where are you going?" cried Syd.

The boy glanced once in his direction, but did not stop running on as
hard as he could go for the front entrance, and directly after the gate
was heard to bang.

"Some one must have hit him," thought Syd. "Poor old Pan, he's always
in trouble. Why, I kicked him last week," he added remorsefully.

"Seen my boy Pan, Master Syd?" said a hoarse voice.

"Yes; he came running by here like a wild bull. Have you been hitting
him?"

"Hitting of him?" growled the ex-boatswain; "on'y just wish I'd had a
rope's-end 'stead o' this here," and he held up the handle of the rake
he had been using. "On'y time to give him one tap and he was gone."

"Enough to make him go. What w