e, and whether it was that your
elbow was particularly tough or his wrist particularly fragile, I don't
know. Anyhow, it went. It's nothing bad, but it'll keep him out of the
game tomorrow."

"I say, what beastly rough luck! I'd no idea. I'll go around."

"Not a bad scheme. Close the door gently after you, and if you see
anybody downstairs who looks as if he were likely to be going over to
the shop, ask him to get me a small pot of some rare old jam and tell
the man to chalk it up to me. The jam Comrade Outwood supplies to us at
tea is all right as a practical joke or as a food for those anxious to
commit suicide, but useless to anybody who values life."

On arriving at Mr. Downing's and going to Adair's study, Mike found that
his late antagonist was out. He left a note informing him of his
willingness to play in the morrow's match. The lock-up bell rang as he
went out of the house.

A spot of rain fell on his hand. A moment later there was a continuous
patter, as the storm, which had been gathering all day, broke in
earnest. Mike turned up his coat collar, and ran back to Outwood's. "At
this rate," he said to himself, "there won't be a match at all
tomorrow."

* * * * *

When the weather decides, after behaving well for some weeks, to show
what it can do in another direction, it does the thing thoroughly. When
Mike woke the next morning the world was gray and dripping.
Leaden-colored clouds drifted over the sky, till there was not a trace
of blue to be seen, and then the rain began again, in the gentle,
determined way rain has when it means to make a day of it.

It was one of those bad days when one sits in the pavilion, damp and
depressed, while figures in mackintoshes, with discolored buckskin
boots, crawl miserably about the field in couples.

Mike, shuffling across to school in a Burberry, met Adair at Downing's
gate.

These moments are always difficult. Mike stopped--he could hardly walk
on as if nothing had happened--and looked down at his feet.

"Coming across?" he said awkwardly.

"Right ho!" said Adair.

They walked on in silence.

"It's only about ten to, isn't it?" said Mike.

Adair fished out his watch, and examined it with an elaborate care born
of nervousness.

"About nine to."

"Good. We've got plenty of time."

"Yes."

"I hate having to hurry over to school."

"So do I."

"I often do cut it rather fine, though."

"Yes. So do I."

"Beastly nu