The man writing the Pithy Pars did some cricket
reporting at Lord's during the summer--some of the best, too.
I was taking bread out of his mouth, and knew it. But it had to be
done, and it was done, as a favour between gentlemen. He saw to the
others. . . . God help those people who run down Cricket!
I knocked in at Foe's flat well on the virtuous side of midnight.
Jimmy was in charge of the patient. Foe had got into an old Caius
blazer and sat very far back in a wicker chair--lolled, in fact, on
his shoulder-pins, sucking at a pipe and brooding.
"Give me a whisky-and-soda," said I. "If ever a man has earned it!"
"I somehow knew you'd turn up," said Jimmy, mixing. "Not a scratch?
Tell us."
So I told. I didn't tell all, of course. I left out all the
business in the lobby, what the steward had said, what Farrell had
said, and my traffic with the reporters. I humped myself on my
display of oratory.
I must have thrown this--necessarily thrown it--somewhat out of
proportion.
Jimmy said, "Rats! I know all about Caesar's funeral, and you
couldn't do it.
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