"Is there not—" he asked. "Is there not a method of procedure, by which one may call thrice?"
"Threes," remarked the vicar, genially.
"Of course there is—would you like me to toss again?"
"I—I think I would," said the poet, meekly. Then turning, apologetically, to the colonel,
"It's better to make quite sure, don't you think?"
The doctor looked a little crestfallen, but agreed, and the vicar once more sent the coin into the air.
"Tails," cried the poet, and as the coin fell, the sovereign's head lay upward.
The poet drew a deep breath.
"It would seem," he said, bowing to the doctor, "that Tommy may yet become your guest."
"There is another go," said the doctor, and the vicar tossed a third time.