"Yes. Here we are.
He's picked up a puncture."
The next moment I plucked a substantial thorn from between two strong
black toes. A warm red tongue touched my restraining fingers in obvious
gratitude.
"Will he be all right?"--anxiously.
"He shall speak for himself," said I, releasing my patient.
With a galvanic squirm the latter regained his feet, spun into the air,
gyrated till I felt dizzy, and then streaked round the tennis-lawn, his
hind feet comically overreaching his fore, steering a zigzag course with
such inconsequence as suggested that My Lord of Misrule himself was
directing him by wireless.
It was not worth while finishing our interrupted game, so we strolled
back to the house. At the top of the stairs we parted, to go and change.
Directly after lunch we were to leave for the fair.
Six days had elapsed since Nobby's scuffle with the apple of Mr. Bason's
eye. Life had slipped by uneventfully. The Sealyham had been put upon a
strict diet and was thoroughly groomed three times a day: my store of
clean starched linen had dwindled to one shirt and two collars, which,
distrusting my brother-in-law, I kept under lock and key: and Mr. Bason
had been stung by our letter into sending a reply which afforded us the
maximum of gratification.
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