“Sloshed him?”
“Biffed him—smote him a blow—in the stomach.”
“My nephew Oliver hit a policeman in the stomach?”
“Absolutely in the stomach. And next morning the beak sent him to the Bastille for thirty days without the option.”
I was looking at her a bit anxiously all this while, to see how she was taking the thing, and at this moment her face seemed suddenly to split in half. For an instant she appeared to be all mouth, and then she was staggering about the grass, shouting with happy laughter and waving the trowel madly.
It seemed to me a bit of luck for her that Sir Roderick Glossop wasn’t on the spot. He would have been sitting on her head and calling for the strait-waistcoat in the first half-minute.
“You aren’t annoyed?” I said.
“Annoyed?” She chuckled happily. “I’ve never heard such a splendid thing in my life.”
I was pleased and relieved. I had hoped the news wouldn’t upset her too much, but I had never expected it to go with such a roar as this.
“I’m proud of him,” she said.
“That’s fine.”
“If every young man in England went about hitting policemen in the stomach, it would be a better country to live in.”
I couldn’t follow her reasoning, but everything seemed to be all right; so after a few more cheery words I said goodbye and legged it.