“Every one helps,” said Dawson. “We’ve got two of the gentlemen from the Grange—Mr Stillford, a good bat, and Captain Irons, who can bowl a bit—or so John Goodenough tells me.”
Lynborough’s eyes had grown alert. “Well, I used to bowl a bit, too. If you’re really hard up for a man, Dawson—really at a loss, you know—I’ll play. It’ll be better than going into the field short, won’t it?”
Dawson was profuse in his thanks. Lynborough listened patiently.
“I tell you what I should like to do, Dawson,” he said. “I should like to stand the lunch.”
It was the turn of Dawson’s eyes to grow alert. They did. Dawson supplied the lunch. The club’s finances were slender, and its ideas correspondingly modest. But if Lord Lynborough “stood” the lunch——!
“And to do it really well,” added that nobleman. “A sort of little feast to celebrate my homecoming. The two teams—and perhaps a dozen places for friends—ladies, the Vicar, and so on, eh, Dawson? Do you see the idea?”
Dawson saw the idea much more clearly than he saw most ideas. Almost corporeally he beheld the groaning board.
“On such an occasion, Dawson, we shouldn’t quarrel about figures.”
“Your lordship’s always most liberal,” Dawson acknowledged in tones which showed some trace of emotion.
“Put the matter in hand at once. But look here, I don’t want it talked about. Just tell the secretary of the club—that’s enough. Keep the tent empty till the moment comes. Then display your triumph! It’ll be a pleasant little surprise for everybody, won’t it?”