'Dodson,' he said, 'look here. Wait till
Jones is well again, and let us play this thing off again for anything
you like a side in my private park.'
Mr Dodson reflected.
'You're on,' he said. 'What side bet? A million? Two million? Three?'
Mr Rackstraw shook his head scornfully.
'A million? Who wants a million? I'll put up my Bloomer boot against
your Meredith ball. Does that go?'
'I should say it did,' said Mr Dodson, joyfully. 'I've been wanting
that boot for years. It's like finding it in one's Christmas stocking.'
'Very well,' said Mr Rackstraw. 'Then let's get it fixed up.'
Honestly, it is but a dog's life, that of the short-story writer. I
particularly wished at this point to introduce a description of Mr
Rackstraw's country house and estate, featuring the private football
ground with its fringe of noble trees. It would have served a double
purpose, not only charming the lover of nature, but acting as a fine
stimulus to the youth of the country, showing them the sort of home
they would be able to buy some day if they worked hard and saved their
money. But no. You shall have three guesses as to what was the cry. You
give it up? It was Brevity--brevity! Let us on.
The two teams arrived at Mr Rackstraw's house in time for lunch.
Clarence, his features once more reduced to their customary
finely-chiselled proportions, alighted from the automobile with a
swelling heart.
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