He took his umbrella again, reminded David of the parcel, and splashed off across the quadrangle.
Familiarity and closer acquaintance had not in the least made David get over the glory and wonder of Maddox.
“By gad,” he said, “fancy his taking the trouble to coach two scugs like you and me. Isn’t he a ripper? Come on, let’s have one more game.”
“Oh, I vote we stop,” said Bags. “It’s too wet for anything.”
“Rot! We can’t possibly get wetter than we are.”
David, of course, had his way, and it was not till twenty minutes later that they trotted off down the Bath Road, on their way to Adams’s, David going by preference through the larger puddles. Bags’s mind, and no doubt David’s also, still ran upon Maddox.
“Does he always call you David?” he asked at length.
“Lord, yes, when we’re alone,” said David, “and I suppose he thought you didn’t count. I remember how sick I was when my father called me ‘David’ at Helmsworth. Sort of disgrace to have your Christian name known. What beastly little scugs we were, with smoking and keeping stag-beetles!”
“I never did either,” said Bags, in a rather superior manner.
David jumped with both feet in a particularly large puddle, and covered Bags with splashed water.