“I—I don’t think I’m awfully keen on playing, thank you,” said Evan, in a wavering voice of would-be stiffness.
“You are!”
“I’m not, really, thanks all the same.”
“But you can’t refuse to play for the school, just because I simply was obliged——”
“It isn’t that!” snapped Evan from his heart. It was too late to recall it. He did not try. He stood for some time without adding a syllable, and then—“I thought I wasn’t even twelfth man?” he sneered.
“Well, as a matter of fact——”
Jan had not the heart to state the fact outright.
“I thought Norgate had got Sandham’s place?”
“Well, so he had. I couldn’t help it, Evan! I really couldn’t. But now Norgate has got measles, too, and you’ve simply got to come in instead. You will, Evan! Of course you will; and I’ll bowl twice as well for having you on the side. I simply hated leaving you out. But there’s life in the old dog yet, and I’ll let ’em know it, and so will you!”
He penetrated deeper into the dusky den; his hand flew out spasmodically. There was not another living being to whom he would have made so demonstrative an advance; but he had just described himself more aptly than he knew. Evan always awakened the faithful old hound in Jan, as Jerry Thrale had stirred the lion in him, Haigh the mule, and sane Bob Heriot the mere man. So we all hit each other in different places. But it was only Evan who had found Jan’s softest spot, and therefore only Evan who could hurt him as he did without delay.