"The poet?" I murmured in amaze.
Tommy nodded.
"He is getting quite a good shot," he said. "He was doing awful well till the vicar saw him about an hour ago—an' then he wouldn't go on any more."
"I should think not," said I. "The humanitarian, the naturalist, the anti-vivisectionist, the anti-destructionist—it passes comprehension."
Tommy took a header and came up on to the sunny bank beside me, where he stood a moment with glowing cheeks and lithe shining limbs.
"This is ripping," he said—every letter an italic. "This is just ab-solutely ripping."
I laughed at his enthusiasm, and, as I laughed, shared it—oh the wine of it, of youth and health and spring—was I talking about resignation just now?—surely not.
Tommy squatted down beside me on his bare haunches, with his hands clasped over his knees.
"I have heard from your father to-day," I said.