"Eating his hat" was the lieutenant's favourite figure of speech; but, somewhat to his surprise, Lieutenant Player, the skipper of the Sixth Division team, promptly made a note of his rival's promise in his pocketbook, amid the laughter of his companions.
Possibly this action unsettled Drake, for, instead of coming up to his average, he was clean bowled before the end of the first over. The wickets fell in quick succession, and in spite of the determined stand of young Cardyke, the Fifth closed with a miserable forty-three. As for the Sixth, they soon piled on runs till the scoring-board stood at 108.
"Now then, Drake," exclaimed Player, boisterously. "Where's your hat?"
Drake began to glare at his tormentor; then, realising the absurdity of "getting his rag out": "See what I'll do to-night," he replied. "A Drake always keeps his word."
Just at that moment a marine orderly, mounted on a bicycle, rode at a high speed over the turf, threw himself out of the saddle abreast of the pavilion, and, with a salute, handed Drake an envelope.
Without a word the lieutenant-commander opened the buff covering, read the contents, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
At length Drake dismissed the messenger, thrust the missive into his pocket, and strolled casually out of the pavilion. The news was important, but it was almost as important that none of his companions save his subordinates should know its import.
Outside the pavilion Drake beckoned to Fielding, and the two strolled a few yards away from the others.
"Looks like business, sir," commented Fielding, as he read the momentous news. "I thought there was something fishy when the papers hinted at it this morning."
"It's a rattling good chance, Fielding, my boy—a rattling good chance. If we don't score I'll eat my——"