“I see at last. What you're trying to tell me is that you were very good at football.”
Ginger Kemp blushed warmly.
“Oh, I don't say that. England was pretty short of scrum-halves that year.”
“What a horrible thing to happen to a country! Still, you were likely to be picked on the All-England team when the smash came? What was the smash?”
“Well, it turned out that the poor old pater hadn't left a penny. I never understood the process exactly, but I'd always supposed that we were pretty well off; and then it turned out that I hadn't anything at all. I'm bound to say it was a bit of a jar. I had to come down from Cambridge and go to work in my uncle's office. Of course, I made an absolute hash of it.”
“Why, of course?”
“Well, I'm not a very clever sort of chap, you see. I somehow didn't seem able to grasp the workings. After about a year, my uncle, getting a bit fed-up, hoofed me out and got me a mastership at a school, and I made a hash of that. He got me one or two other jobs, and I made a hash of those.”
“You certainly do seem to be one of our most prominent young hashers!” gasped Sally.
“I am,” said Ginger, modestly.
There was a silence.