“That’s right. You practise always falling on a soft spot, and you need never worry.”
“But I’d rather practise sticking on,” said Geoffrey. “It’s nicer.”
“You might practise both,” said Wally. “You’ll have plenty of both, you know.” He laughed at the puzzled face. “Never mind, old chap. How are the others, and why aren’t they here?”
“They’re too little,” Geoffrey said loftily. “Small childrens don’t come in to tea, at least not when there’s parties. I came, ’cause Mother says I’m getting ’normous.”
“So you are. Are the others quite well?”
“Oh yes,” Geoffrey answered, clearly regarding the question as foolish. “They’re all right. Alison’s got a puppy, and Michael’s been eating plate-powder. His mouf was all pink.”
“What’s that about my Michael,” demanded Mrs. Hunt. “Oh yes—we found him making a hearty meal of plate-powder this morning. Douglas says it should make him very bright. I’m thankful to say it doesn’t seem to be going to kill him.”
“Michael never will realize that there is a war on,” said Major Hunt, aggrieved. “I found him gnawing the strap of one of my gaiters the other day.”
“You shouldn’t underfeed the poor kid,” said Wally. “It’s clear that he’s finding his nourishment when and how he can. Isn’t there a Society for dealing with people like you?”
“There is,” said Jim solemnly. “It’s called the Police Force.”