There is a game called skittles, or, more properly, ninepins, in which if you strike one of the pins deftly it carries on the blow to the next, which follows suit, and so on, till the blow given to number one has resulted in all nine being laid low.
“Jes’ like ninepins, Master Aleck,” said Tom, “only there’s nobbut three on us. I beg your pardon, sir; I couldn’t help it.”
“No, no, no, no, no!” roared Aleck, each utterance being a part of a hearty laugh, for the gardener had knocked Tom over, Tom had upset him, and the blow he carried on to the midshipman had sent the latter rolling down the slope, to come raging up as soon as he could gain his feet and climb back.
“What are you laughing at?” he shouted.
“It was so comic,” panted Aleck, wiping his eyes.
“Shall I go arter him, sir?” said Tom.
“No, no. He is half way to the top by now.”
“Yes, yes,” cried the middy; “and look sharp, or perhaps he’ll be trying to shut us up again.”
“Not he,” said Aleck; “he won’t stop till he is safe. I don’t believe we shall see the lazy old scoundrel again.”
Aleck’s words proved to be true.