“He’s only heard that the Trenthams are coming,” said the Worry. By trying to reassure us he sought to reassure himself.
“Confound you! are you going to dislocate your face?” said the Secretary, aiming a cushion and a string of unprintable expressions at the General Nuisance. “What’s up now? Is Charlie crocked? Is Billy drinking? Good Lord! I hope there’s nothing gone wrong with the bowling!”
“Not yet,” said the General Nuisance sweetly; “but there will be, I’ll give you my word.”
“We shall have to try that muck o’ yours then,” said the Pessimist.
“Unfortunately I’m not playing to-morrow; I’m going fishing,” said the General Nuisance affably.
“Eh? What?”
It was the voice of the Secretary from behind the Captain’s chair. It was a psychological moment. Each man present had that nightmare of a feeling that afflicts you in the long-field when A. H. Trentham lifts one to you steeples high, curling some fifteen ways at once, which all the time you are hopelessly misjudging and that you know you are bound to drop. However, I had the presence of mind to distract the General Nuisance with a drink, while the Captain laid a soothing hand on the Secretary’s knee, and appealed to his moral nature. Brandy and soda, one grieves to say, inflamed rather than appeased the personal appearance of the General Nuisance. His simper became a grin.
“Pipe up,” said that heroical man, the Treasurer, preparing for the worst; “out with it.”
“You will be very brave?” said the General Nuisance.
“Comfort, you blackguard,” said the Secretary, “Why do you grin? Speak or die!”