'Oh, no, I don't think so. Keep him out of school for about a week.'

'Lucky beast. Wish somebody would come and hit me on the head. Come
and hit me on the head, Parker.'

'Come and have an ice,' said Parker.

'Right-ho,' said Pillingshot. It was one of his peculiarities, that
whatever the hour or the state of the weather, he was always equal to
consuming an ice. This was probably due to genius. He had an infinite
capacity for taking pains. Scarcely was he outside the promised ice
when another misfortune came upon him. Scott, of the First Eleven,
entered the shop. Pillingshot liked Scott, but he was not blind to
certain flaws in the latter's character. For one thing, he was too
energetic. For another, he could not keep his energy to himself. He was
always making Pillingshot do things. And Pillingshot's notion of the
ideal life was complete _dolce far niente_.

'Ginger-beer, please,' said Scott, with parched lips. He had been
bowling at the nets, and the day was hot. 'Hullo! Pillingshot, you
young slacker, why aren't you changed? Been bunking half-holiday games?
You'd better reform, young man.'

'I've been in extra,' said Pillingshot, with dignity.

'How many times does that make this term? You're going for the record,
aren't you? Jolly sporting of you. Bit slow in there, wasn't it?
'Nother ginger-beer, please.'