“How?”
“Caught at the wicket.”
“Bowler?”
“Young Cox.”
The philosopher returned to the pallid figure upon the grass, with a demeanour that was curiously out of key with the dignity of his natural character.
“Luney, old boy!” he cried, flinging his hat in the air, “Joe Cox has got out the great Gunn.”
Although this thrilling announcement had no significance for him whose head was propped upon a coat against a brick wall, a gentle smile crept across the gaunt features.
“I am sure that must be—must be very nice, Jimmy,” he said, “very nice indeed.”
“Nice!” exclaimed the philosopher, almost fiercely, “what a word to use! To say, Luney, that you set up to be a scholar you do use the rummest lingo. Joe Cox gets out the great Gunn, and you call it ‘nice’! James Dodson don’t pretend to be a scholar, my son, but he knows better than to call Homer ‘nice’!”
William Jordan suffered this rebuke in a melancholy silence. He seemed to understand how thoroughly it was merited.