“We are forgiven,” remarked Drummond, as he joined the other three on the lawn. “Do any of you feel like breakfast? Fat sausages and crinkly bacon.”
“Shut up,” groaned Algy, “or we’ll throw you into the river. What I want is a brandy-and-soda—half a dozen of ’em.”
“I wish I knew what they did to us,” said Darrell. “Because, if I remember straight, I drank bottled beer at dinner, and I’m damned if I see how they could have doped that.”
“I’m only interested in one thing, Peter,” remarked Drummond grimly, “and that isn’t what they did to us. It’s what we’re going to do to them.”
“Count me out,” said Algy. “For the next year I shall be fully occupied resting my head against a cold stone. Hugh, I positively detest your friends....”
* * * * *
It was a few hours later that a motor-car drew up outside that celebrated chemist in Piccadilly whose pick-me-ups are known from Singapore to Alaska. From it there descended four young men, who ranged themselves in a row before the counter and spoke no word. Speech was unnecessary. Four foaming drinks were consumed, four acid-drops were eaten, and then, still in silence, the four young men got back into the car and drove away. It was a solemn rite, and on arrival at the Junior Sports Club the four performers sank into four large chairs, and pondered gently on the vileness of the morning after. Especially when there hadn’t been a night before. An unprofitable meditation evidently, for suddenly, as if actuated by a single thought, the four young men rose from their four large chairs and again entered the motor-car.
The celebrated chemist whose pick-me-ups are known from Singapore to Alaska gazed at them severely.
“A very considerable bend, gentlemen,” he remarked.
“Quite wrong,” answered the whitest and most haggard of the row. “We are all confirmed Pussyfoots, and have been consuming non-alcoholic beer.”