"And all you've got is that mildewed chaperon, snoring there."
Amaryllis shuddered.
"I don't know even yet," she said, "why you brought it—a thing you might have left tied in a bundle by the roadside. He's only been dangerous and disgusting. And you said——"
"Said it wasn't to take it out of him that I did it. Did I? If I did, it's right."
There was a silence.
"I suppose you could guess," said Dick, breaking it.
"Was it because you thought of the harm that he does, making drugs and selling them to sad people and bad people, Dick?"
"That might have been a good reason. It's not my line, though—if I'm on oath."
"Oh, but you're not, Dick. You needn't say anything unless you want to tell me."
"I do. That reason wasn't mine. I don't feel like that about people in the lump. And now they say the people is free and democratic—doing things, you know, off its own bat, when it hasn't a cat's notion of cricket—now I think, as far as I think about the lump at all, that it'd better have a fair run at its own game. Result may be anything; might be a new and a good one. But I simply hate seeing the old professional groundsman pretending that the new mob of boys likes cricket, and sweating himself all for nothing.