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.
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