“I think that’s how I used to effect ’em occasionally,” said the old gentleman, with a twinkle. “It used to be said that the All England Eleven once called a meeting to discuss how these curly twisters should be played. Some of ’em would lie awake at nights trying to find out the scientific way. But I don’t think they ever did. Once I remember bowling Tom Hayward second ball both innings in one match, and it made poor Tom so sick that they had to put leeches on his head.”
“Oh, Mr. Dimsdale,” sighed Miss Grace, “I should like you to have seen old father in his day. That’s why he’s a D.D., you know. Cambridge gave it him for his bowling.”
“Really!” I said. “Is that a fact?”
“Well,” said the Rector, and I never saw a man look more mischievous, “I don’t quite think it was for my learning.”
“Toddles,” said Archie, “Oxford’ll elect you to a fellowship if you did get a Fourth in Mods.”
“Laura,” said the Rector, “let me assure you again that I don’t think this curl in the air can be acquired. Therefore, I should recommend you to spend your spare time in more profitable employments. For instance, playing with a perfectly straight bat, or weeding the garden, or trying to read Horace without a crib.”
This was Charlie’s opportunity. For a moment that boisterous person seemed mightily inconvenienced by the Homeric laughter that shook his being.
“What price Grace,” he cried, “spending her spare time in reading Horace? Why, she only knows of one chap called Horace in the reading line, which his other name is Hutchinson.”
“Oh, don’t I though?” said Grace. “I know the Horace father means. A fat old bounder who was always thirsty; awful fond of wine, he was, awful fond. Don’t think he was ever in condition. As for his jaw, it was something frightful. Why, I’ve got a very cultivated literary taste, haven’t I, Father?”
“Very,” said her parent gently.