Dig laughed hysterically.
“Then I’ve got the ten-and-six?” he asked.
“Rather.”
Dig made two duck’s eggs, and missed every ball that came in his way that afternoon, and was abused and hooted all round the field. What cared he? He had Blazer burning a hole in his pocket, and ten-and-six in postage-stamps waiting for him in Mills’s study. As soon as he could decently quit the scene of his inglorious exploits, he bolted off to claim his stakes. Mills was not at home, so he took a seat and waited for him, glancing round the room carefully, in case the stamps should be lying out for him somewhere. But they were not.
In due time Mills returned.
“Hullo, kid! what do you want?”
Dig grinned and pulled out his paper.
“How’s that, umpire?” demanded he.
Mills stared at the document.
“What on earth is the row with you? What are you driving at?”