“Yes. But it’ll be all right if you’ll take it—won’t it be, Birket?”
“Rather!” said Birket. “He’d be a brick if he did.”
“I don’t mind trying,” said Dick modestly.
“Will you really? Thanks, awfully! You know Cresswell? No, by the way, he’s not here yet. He’s in the Sixth, and has been acting as whipper-in till we got a proper chap. He’ll be here in the morning. Any one will tell you where he hangs out. He’ll bless you, I can tell you, for taking the job out of his hands. You never saw the pace he goes at when he tries to run, eh, Birket?”
“Rather not,” said Birket. “It’s a regular joke. A snail’s nothing to him.”
“How has he managed to whip in?” asked Dick, rather amused at the idea of this Sixth-form snail.
“Bless you, we’ve had no runs lately, that’s why. But we shall make up now you’ve come.”
Dick heartily wished he had run in his shoes that afternoon. He was sure he could have done the distance two or even three seconds better if he had.
“If you’ll really go in for it,” said Birket, “go to him early to-morrow, and tell him who you are; and say you are going to act as whipper-in, and that you have arranged it all with us.”
Dick looked a little concerned.