"Let's just call at the shop," said Mike. "There ought to be a telegram from Geddington by this time. I wonder how Bob's got on."
Apparently Bob had not had a chance yet of distinguishing himself. The telegram read, "Geddington 151 for four. Lunch."
"Not bad that," said Mike. "But I believe they're weak in bowling."
They walked down the road towards the school landing-stage.
"The worst of a school," said Uncle John, as he pulled up-stream with strong, unskilful stroke, "is that one isn't allowed to smoke on the grounds. I badly want a pipe. The next piece of shade that you see, sing out, and we'll put in there."
"Pull your left," said Mike. "That willow's what you want."
Uncle John looked over his shoulder, caught a crab, recovered himself, and steered the boat in under the shade of the branches.
"Put the rope over that stump. Can you manage with one hand? Here, let me— Done it? Good. A-ah!"
He blew a great cloud of smoke into the air, and sighed contentedly.
"I hope you don't smoke, Mike?"
"No."
"Rotten trick for a boy. When you get to my age you need it. Boys ought to be thinking about keeping themselves fit and being good at games. Which reminds me. Let's have a look at the wrist."
A hunted expression came into Mike's eyes.
"It's really nothing," he began, but his uncle had already removed the sling, and was examining the arm with the neat rapidity of one who has been brought up to such things.
To Mike it seemed as if everything in the world was standing still and waiting. He could hear nothing but his own breathing.
