“Yes, but what can we do?” queried an octogenarian, when this last remark had been passed on to him down his ear-trumpet.
“That’s the trouble,” sighed the Scooper. “What can we do?” And there was a sorrowful shaking of heads.
“I know!” exclaimed the Cat-Stroker, who had not hitherto spoken. He was a lawyer, and a man of subtle and sinister mind. “I have it! There’s a boy in my office—young Parsloe—who could beat this man Dibble hollow. I’ll wire him to come down here and we’ll spring him on this fellow and knock some of the conceit out of him.”
There was a chorus of approval.
“But are you sure he can beat him?” asked the Snake-Killer, anxiously. “It would never do to make a mistake.”
“Of course I’m sure,” said the Cat-Stroker. “George Parsloe once went round in ninety-four.”
“Many changes there have been since ninety-four,” said the octogenarian, nodding sagely. “Ah, many, many changes. None of these motor-cars then, tearing about and killing—”
Kindly hands led him off to have an egg-and-milk, and the remaining conspirators returned to the point at issue with bent brows.
“Ninety-four?” said the Scooper, incredulously. “Do you mean counting every stroke?”
“Counting every stroke.”