“Best summer ever!” cried Martin. “I only wish I had started two years ago when I came to this bibulous burgh.”
“How came it? Religion?”
“No; just horse sense, and the old chief.”
“Dunn!” exclaimed Linklater. “I always knew he was against that sort of thing in training, but I didn't think he would carry it to this length.”
“Yes, Dunn! I say, old boy, I've no doubt you think you know him, I thought so, too, but I've learned some this summer. Here's a yarn, and it is impressive. Dunn had planned an extensive walking tour in the Highlands; you know he came out of his exams awfully fagged. Well, at this particular moment it happened that Balfour Murray—you know the chap that has been running that settlement joint in the Canongate for the last two years—proposes to Dunn that he should spend a few weeks in leading the young hopefuls in that interesting and uncleanly neighbourhood into paths of virtue and higher citizenship by way of soccer and kindred athletic stunts. Dunn in his innocence agrees, whereupon Balfour Murray promptly develops a sharp attack of pneumonia, necessitating rest and change of air, leaving the poor old chief in the deadly breach. Of course, everybody knows what the chief would do in any deadly breach affair. He gave up his Highland tour, shouldered the whole Canongate business, organised the thing as never before, inveigled all his friends into the same deadly breach, among the number your humble servant, who at the time was fiercely endeavouring in the last lap of the course to atone for a two years' loaf, organised a champion team which has licked the spots off everything in sight, and in short, has made the whole business a howling success; at the cost, however, of all worldly delights, including his Highland tour and the International.”
“Oh, I say!” moaned Linklater. “It makes me quite ill to think of the old chief going off this way.”
Martin nodded sympathetically. “Kind of 'Days that are no more,' 'Lost leader' feeling, eh?”
“Exactly, exactly! Oh, it's rotten! And you, too! He's got you on this same pious line.”
“Look here,” shouted Martin, with menace in his voice, “are you classifying me with the old chief? Don't be a derned fool.”
Linklater brightened perceptibly. “Now you're getting a little natural,” he said in a hopeful tone.