“You see, I caught him a juicy hack, too, last night,” continued David. “And he’s a revengeful beast in a general way.”
“Perhaps it’s the Day of Atonement or something,” suggested Ferrers.
David sat up.
“No, that can’t be it,” he said. “Else he’d want to make me atone. Hallo, here he comes across the field, racquet-handle and all.”
He suddenly gave a shrill whistle through his broken front tooth.
“I say, will you back me up whatever I say?” he asked. “I’ve thought of something ripping.”
Ferrers peered short-sightedly across the field. He did not often wear his spectacles, since they were supposed to give him a resemblance to Goggles, which was the rise of intolerable comment. So they seldom graced his freckled nose.
“Yes, here he comes,” he said. “I’ll back you up. But, what is it?”
“Oh, you’ll see,” said David.
Bags made a truculent approach, swinging his racquet-handle. He had done all that could humanly be done in the easing of his conscience, and since he had been literally unable to get out of the rôle of executioner with honour, he had wisely determined to dwell on the bright side of it, and hit as hard as he could in the same place.