“Southport trainer gave them sweet spirits of nitre to increase their—er—humidity. Clearly against the rules.”
Tommy viewed him anxiously. “Better move back into the shade,” he advised. “Gee, I didn’t realize the sun was so hot! No scoring yet, eh?”
“No. Where’s your hat, Tommy?”
“Ate it.” That was Tommy’s invariable answer to the pesky question. “Help yourself.”
Bert groaned and dipped again. “Do you ever stop eating?” he inquired.
“Frequently. No practice for you guys to-day?”
“How do you mean, no practice?” said Bert indignantly. “We were at it four hours. Anyway, it seemed that long. How come you weren’t on hand with your invaluable advice, Tommy?”
“I was doing a composition and fell asleep. Woke up with my fountain pen stuck in my left ear. Dreamed I was being hung.”
“I don’t get the relationship between the dream and the—whatyoucallit—actuality,” sighed Bert.
“Nor I—at first. Guess the pen sticking into said ear suggested hangman’s knot. Don’t they put the knot against the left ear?”