“Oh!” ejaculated Kenneth, and the big beating did not seem so near. Not that it proved to be more distant, only it was the other way on, for Max played quietly and respectably, keeping up a steady scoring, while Kenneth’s idea seemed to be that the best way was to hit the balls hard, so that they might chance to go somewhere.
This they did, but not so as to add to his score, and the consequence was that, when Max marked a hundred, Kenneth was only thirty-three.
“Oh, I say!” he exclaimed, “I didn’t know you could play like that.”
“I often have a game with my father,” said Max. “He always gives me fifty out of a hundred, and he can beat me, but he lets me win sometimes.”
Kenneth whistled.
“I say,” he said, “your father must be a very clever man.”
“Yes,” said Max, in a dull, quiet way, “I think he is very clever.”
“You don’t seem very much pleased about it.”
“I’m afraid I’m very tired. It has been such a hard day.”
“Hard! that’s nothing. You wait till your legs get trained, you won’t think this a hard day.”