“No, last year, Sir—against Wales!”
“By Jove!” cried Mr. Denman again; “give me your hand, boy! Any man who has made the Scottish Internationals is not called to stand any cheek from a cad like Bates.”
Mr. Denman shook Cameron warmly by the hand.
“Tell us about it!” he cried. “It must have been rare sport. If Bates only knew it, he ought to count it an honour to have been knocked down by a Scottish International.”
“I didn't knock him down, Sir!” said Cameron, apologetically; “he is only a little chap; I just gave him a bit of a shake,” and Cameron proceeded to recount the proceedings of the previous morning.
Mr. Denman was hugely delighted.
“Serves the little beast bloody well right!” he cried enthusiastically. “But what's to do now? They will be afraid to let you into their offices in this city.”
“I think, Sir, I am done with offices; I mean to try the land.”
“Farm, eh?” mused Mr. Denman. “Well, so be it! It will probably be safer for you there—possibly for some others as well.”