“I suppose you expect me to sympathise with you about that, eh? The bigger the howler the better for me! I only wish you were a true prophet, Noll, in that particular.”
“Why, of course you’ll beat me—and if you don’t Loman will. I hear he’s grinding away like nuts.”
“Is he, though?” said Wraysford.
“Yes, and he’s going to get a ‘coach’ in the holidays too.”
“More likely a dog-cart. Anyhow, I dare say he will run us close. But he’s such a shifty fellow, there’s no knowing whether he will stay out.”
Just at that moment a terrific row came up from below.
“Whatever’s up down there?”
“Only the Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles. By the way,” said Wraysford, “they’ve got a grand ‘supper,’ as they call it, on to-night to celebrate their cricket match. Suppose we go and see the fun?”
“All right!” said Oliver. “Who won the match?”
“Why, what a question! Do you suppose a match between Guinea-pigs and Tadpoles ever came to an end? They had a free fight at the end of the first innings. The Tadpole umpire gave one of his own men ‘not out’ when he hit his wicket, and they made a personal question of it, and fell out. Your young brother, I hear, greatly distinguished himself in the argument.”