"The match is not for an hour yet," said Lamb.
"Oh yes," said Mehtah, "we're going to sit on your house this afternoon, Todd."
At this most interesting point of the conversation the door of the punt-house was violently slammed to, and Gus was propelled forward clean into the punt and received hurriedly into the unexpectant arms of Burnt Lamb. Before any of the three could understand what had happened there was a hurried fumbling with the staple and pin of the punt-house door from the outside, and then an equally hurried retreat of footsteps.
"Well, I'm hanged!" said Gus, after he had picked himself up and tried the door. "We're locked in."
Young Rogers and Wilson, who had done this fell deed, hoped there was no doubt about the locking. This couple of ornaments had immediately after dinner snatched their caps and ran on past the Lodestone Farm for a particular purpose. They had found a yellowhammer's nest a day or so before, containing one solitary egg, and their hurried run was for the purpose of seeing if there was any increase, and if so—well, the usual result. They were anxious to get back to the cricket-field in time to shout and generally give their house a leg-up when the Houser with Taylor's commenced, and their friend Grim had strict orders to bag them each seats, front row, in the pavilion. They had been busy blowing eggs for pretty well twenty minutes, and, as they were lazily returning schoolwards, they caught sight of Gus watching his float.
"There's Gus Todd trying to hook tiddlers," said Rogers.
"Shy a stone," suggested Wilson, "and wake 'em up."
"Rot! There's no cover."
"It's only Todd," said Wilson. "What's the odds?"
"Yes, but not quite the old ass. Better get home."