'Just a bit,' said Pillingshot.

'I thought so. And now you're dying for some excitement. Of course you
are. Well, cut over to the House and change, and then come back and
field at the nets. The man Yorke is going to bowl me some of his
celebrated slow tosh, and I'm going to show him exactly how Jessop does
it when he's in form.'

Scott was the biggest hitter in the School. Mr Yorke was one of the
masters. He bowled slow leg-breaks, mostly half-volleys and long hops.
Pillingshot had a sort of instinctive idea that fielding out in the
deep with Mr Yorke bowling and Scott batting would not contribute
largely to the gaiety of his afternoon. Fielding deep at the nets meant
that you stood in the middle of the football field, where there was no
telling what a ball would do if it came at you along the ground. If you
were lucky you escaped without injury. Generally, however, the ball
bumped and deprived you of wind or teeth, according to the height to
which it rose. He began politely, but firmly, to excuse himself.

'Don't talk rot,' said Scott, complainingly, 'you must have some
exercise or you'll go getting fat. Think what a blow it would be to
your family, Pillingshot, if you lost your figure. Buck up. If you're
back here in a quarter of an hour you shall have another ice. A large
ice, Pillingshot, price sixpence. Think of it.'

The word ice, as has been remarked before, touched chords in
Pillingshot's nature to which he never turned a deaf ear. Within the
prescribed quarter of an hour he was back again, changed.

'Here's the ice,' said Scott, 'I've been keeping it warm for you.