"Tommy returns to school, to-morrow, for the Easter term, and his holiday will be in April, I fancy. To whom is he to go first?"
We all looked at each other with questioning eyes—then we looked at the fire.
The silence began to get awkward.
"Shall we—er—shall we toss—draw lots, that is?" suggested the vicar, rather nervously.
The idea seemed good, and we resorted to the time-honoured, yet most unsatisfactory, expedient of spinning a penny in the air.
The results, combined with a process of exclusion, left the choice between the poet and the doctor.
The vicar spun, and the poet called. "Heads!" he cried, feverishly.
And heads it was.
A smile of relief and triumph was dawning on the doctor's face, when the poet looked at him, anxiously.