The Major spent the rest of the afternoon on the porch, nursing a tall glass and looking at the hills. After a shower Cyril joined him.
"The blooming Britons are holding a lodge of sorrow," said Waddles, who was in high spirits. "What's the betting on the finals to-morrow?"
"I'll back the Major," spoke up Jay Gilman, "if you'll promise not to talk the shirt off his back."
"Another dumb player, eh?" asked Waddles, grinning.
"Never opened his mouth to me but once the entire way round," answered Jay.
"And what did he say then?"
"As near as I recall," replied Jay, "he said 'Dormie!'"
"I hate a man who can't talk!" exclaimed Waddles.
"How you must hate yourself," I suggested, and was forced to dodge a match safe.
"Just the same," persisted Jay, "I'll take the Major's end if you'll promise to keep your mouth shut."