Mr Marston's rubicund face expressed appropriate disapproval.
"That fellow going to spend all his life in a bank? Preposterous! He will be simply ruined there—a fellow who can play cricket like that!"
Mr Marston, having spent his own life at a desk, was anxious to save anyone else from a similar fate, especially a cricketer.
"Well, it seems the only thing for him to do, father; his people haven't got much money and have no influence. I know they have tried to get him something better, but they haven't been able to."
"My dear Gerald, why didn't you tell me about it? If I had known a fellow like that was being tied up in a bank I'd have tried to do something to help him."
"Well, it's not too late now, is it?"
"No, but it's rather short notice, isn't it? What could he do?"
"Pretty well anything you could give him, father. He is jolly keen."
"Um!" said Mr Marston; and Gerald, who knew his father well, recognised that he was about to immerse himself in deep thought, and that it would be wiser to leave him alone.
By next morning the deep thought had crystallised into an idea.