Lettice slipped a sly hand under the great biceps of her eldest brother.
“But don’t you see, old boy, that it makes it the worse for Tony that you and Fred were what you were at school? They measure him by the standard you two set up; it’s natural enough, but it isn’t fair.”
“He needn’t be a flyer at games,” said Horace, duly softened by a little flattery. “But he might be a tryer!”
“Wait till we get a little more breath into his body.”
“A bag of oxygen wouldn’t make him a cricketer.”
“Yet he’s so keen on cricket!”
“I wish he wasn’t so keen; he thinks and talks more about it than Fred or I did when we were in the eleven, yet he never looked like making a player.”
“I should say he thinks and talks more about most things; it’s his nature, just as it’s Fred’s and yours to be men of action.”
“Well, I’m glad he’s not allowed to cumber the crease this season,” said Horace, bowling his cigarette-end into the darkness with a distinct swerve in the air. “To have him called our ‘pocket edition,’ on the cricket-field of all places, is a bit too thick.”
Lettice withdrew her sympathetic hand.