could collect on this race, because it would give him enough money to chuck his tutoring job and get back to London; but all the same, he needn’t have woken me up at three in the morning twice running—once to tell me we ought to cook Harold’s food ourselves to prevent doping: the other time to say that he had heard mysterious noises in the shrubbery. But he reached the limit, in my opinion, when he insisted on my going to evening service on Sunday, the day before the sports.
“Why on earth?” I said, never being much of a lad for evensong.
“Well, I can’t go myself. I shan’t be here. I’ve got to go to London today with young Egbert.”
Egbert was Lord Wickhammersley’s son, the one Bingo was tutoring.
“He’s going for a visit down in Kent, and I’ve got to see him off at Charing Cross. It’s an infernal nuisance. I shan’t be back till Monday afternoon. In fact, I shall miss most of the sports, I expect. Everything, therefore, depends on you, Bertie.”
“But why should either of us go to evening service?”
“Ass! Harold sings in the choir, doesn’t he?”
“What about it? I can’t stop him dislocating his neck over a high note, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
“Fool! Steggles sings in the choir, too. There may be dirty work after the service.”
“What absolute rot!”
“Is it?” said young Bingo.