"I'm full of ideas," I lied.
Nine o'clock found a small row of us prepared to blow the feather. The presidential instructions were that we had to race our feather across a chalk-line at the end of the room, anybody touching his feather to be disqualified.
"In the air or on the floor?" asked Simpson earnestly.
"Just as you like," said the President kindly, and came round with the bag.
I selected Percy with care—a dear little feather about half an inch long and of a delicate whity-brown colour. I should have known him again anywhere.
"Go!" said the President. I was rather excited, with the result that my first blow was much too powerful for Percy. He shot up to the ceiling and, in spite of all I could do, seemed inclined to stay there. Anxiously I waited below with my mouth open; he came slowly down at last; and in my eagerness I played my second just a shade too soon. It missed him. My third (when I was ready for it) went harmlessly over his head. A frantic fourth and fifth helped him downwards ... and in another moment my beautiful Percy was on the floor. I dropped on my knees and played my sixth vigorously. He swirled to the left; I was after him like a shot ... and crashed into Thomas. We rolled over in a heap.
"Sorry!" we apologized as we got back on to our hands and knees.
Thomas went on blowing.
"Where's my feather?" I said.
Thomas was now two yards ahead, blowing like anything. A terrible suspicion darted through my mind.