“’Tisn’t as if we were going to lose each other,” said he. “And we’re not dead, either of us, David. Do buck up.”
“Can’t,” said David.
“Then it’s rotten of you. It isn’t a bit worse for you than me. You’ve lots of things in front of you: you’ll get into the eleven next year, you’ll get into the sixth at Christmas if you try. You’ll swagger horribly, you’ll——”
Frank could not manage to pump up any more consoling reflections: they were all beside the point. So, like a sensible boy, he left them alone, and went to the point instead.
“David, old chap,” he said, “I don’t believe two fellows ever had such a good time as we’ve had, and it would be rot to pretend not to be sorry that this bit of it has come to an end. I dare say we shall have splendid times together again, but there’s no doubt that this is over. On the other hand, it would be equal rot not to feel jolly thankful for it. The chances were millions to one against our ever coming across each other at all. So buck up, as I said.”
David had rolled over on to his face, but at this he sat up, picking bits of dry grass out of his hair.
“Yes, that’s so,” he said. “But it will be pretty beastly without you. I shan’t find another friend like you——”
“You’d jolly well better not,” interrupted Frank.
David could not help laughing.
“I suppose we’re rather idiots about each other,” he said.