always bank on Bertie,” said Claude. “A sportsman to the fingertips. Well, has Bingo told you about it?”
“Not a word. He’s been—”
“We’ve been talking,” said Bingo hastily, “of other matters.”
Claude pinched the last slice of thin bread-and-butter, and Eustace poured himself out a cup of tea.
“It’s like this, Bertie,” said Eustace, settling down cosily.
“As I told you in my letter, there are nine of us marooned in this desert spot, reading with old Heppenstall. Well, of course, nothing is jollier than sweating up the Classics when it’s a hundred in the shade, but there does come a time when you begin to feel the need of a little relaxation; and, by Jove, there are absolutely no facilities for relaxation in this place whatever. And then Steggles got this idea. Steggles is one of our reading-party, and, between ourselves, rather a worm as a general thing. Still, you have to give him credit for getting this idea.”
“What idea?”
“Well, you know how many parsons there are round about here. There are about a dozen hamlets within a radius of six miles, and each hamlet has a church and each church has a parson and each parson preaches a sermon every Sunday. Tomorrow week—Sunday the twenty-third—we’re running off the great Sermon Handicap. Steggles is making the book. Each parson is to be clocked by a reliable steward of the