“I see no objection to that,” said Sir John. “What do you think, doctor?”
“No objection,” said Dr Soames Pryce with a yawn.
“Then,” said Sir John, as he rose, “I think that concludes our business.”
The head-gardener and his two assistants made an incautious appearance, and were at once commanded to carry the club-books within to the secretary’s room. Mr Bassett said he supposed he ought to go and see how poor Cyril Mast was getting on after last night.
Dr Soames Pryce watched Bassett’s little figure under the big hat retreating down the avenue.
“Nice specimen of Pusillanimus Ambulans, or the Walking Toadstool,” said Dr Pryce. “What’s next, Sweetling? I don’t mind backing my green lizard against the clock.”
“Silly game, very silly,” said Sir John. “Still, I may as well lose four half-crowns at that as anything else. And”—he glanced at his elaborate presentation watch—“there’s still half an hour before lunch.”
The course for lizard-racing had been designed and laid out by Dr Pryce in the courtyard on the further side of the club. The course was circular, and the boards on either side sloped inwards so that the lizards should not climb them. A lizard attempting escape would go straight ahead by the only path open to it, round and round the circle. That was the rule, but there were various exceptions.
Dr Pryce produced the box of plaited grass in which his lizard was kept, and turned it out on to the course. It made an ineffectual attempt to climb the side, and then went straight away, looking rather like a clever clockwork toy.