Gorgas’ eyes followed him. He did not miss that; nor the whispered, “Fine work, old chap; we saw what you did.” But, characteristically, he said nothing about the game or its outcome.
“Good sport, Clarke,” Morris said later, the nearest he came to discussing it. “Must have been ready to flop.... Cleaned me up in that second set; with a cracked ankle, too. Only thing to do—bring it on the level as near as possible. Seems a shame. Clarke didn’t want to win that way. Neither of us did.”
During the brief shower, Gorgas mothered him, tucked the rug about him, fed him muffins, and decided just the proper color of tea for a hero. And then she insisted that he drive back with them.
As Blynn thought of the spectacle of those two youngsters picnicking together, facing him all the way home, and talking their private jargon, he decided for the seat beside Mac.
“Good work, Professor,” Morris laughed. “We don’t like to hurry you off, but—”
The children seemed carried away by some unguessable joke.
“What’s the matter?” Blynn beamed down on them benignly. “Is my tie jumping the track in back?” That was one of his constant fears. His right hand explored the neck.
“Oh, your back’s all right,” Morris could hardly hold his joy at Blynn’s obtuseness. “Back’s fine!” Then he began to chant a college song of the hour, keeping time by rapid pats on his knees.
“We were yachting and the chaperone
Was blind and deaf and dumb,