“Look here, Trimble,” said I, “it’s time you knew my name by now.”
Trimble laughed, as did the others. They all thought it was high time.
But everybody we met I was introduced to as Sarah.
“Awfully sorry,” said Langrish, after the fourth or fifth offence. “I’ve such a bad memory for names.—Well kicked, sir.”
This exclamation was addressed, not to me, but to a senior who had just appeared on the scene, and was kicking about the practice football with a friend prior to a match which was evidently due.
It was a splendid kick, and the author of it was a splendid fellow—brawny of limb and light of foot, with fair hair and clear blue eyes—as one might picture one of the Norsemen of the story-books. You could see by the way he moved, and the spirit he put even into this practice kicking, that he was a sportsman every inch of him; and his good-natured laugh, as he exchanged greetings with this and that arriving friend, proclaimed him, even before you heard him speak, as good a gentleman as he was an athlete.
“Redwood’s in form to-day,” said some one. “We’d better stop and see the play.”
“Is that Redwood, the captain?” inquired I, in an awestruck way, of Warminster.
“Rather,” was the reply, in a tone of pride which convinced me that Low Heath was proud of its chief, even though he had the misfortune to be a day boy.
Just then Redwood turned and waved his hand to somebody near us.