“You’re sure you are not done up?” said Glyn anxiously.
“Done up? Nonsense! I only want a bit of rest, and then I shall get back to my side and we can beat you.”
“Jacket?” said Glyn, still looking at him in doubt. “Here, let me fetch it for you. I haven’t had so much running.”
“Do! There’s a good chap,” cried Singh eagerly, and thrusting his hand into his pocket he brought out his keys.
“In the bottom drawer, isn’t it?” said Glyn.
“Yes, I think so. If it isn’t, it’s in the bullock-trunk.”
“All right,” cried Glyn, catching the keys that were pitched to him; and he trotted off, while Singh picked out a shady spot and threw himself upon the turf.
Just about the same time, book in hand, Morris, apparently deep in study, after walking all round the field, came up to the group that Singh had just left, and closed his book, retaining the place with his thumb. He glanced round amongst the resting little party.
“Why, where is Singh?” he said quietly, addressing Burton. “I thought he was playing on your side.”
“Yes, sir; he is, sir,” cried the little fellow eagerly. “He’s just gone up to his dormitory, sir, to get his thin cricketing-jacket.”