"This is a sickener," he gasped.
"Jove! Grim, you've wanted one long enough," said Wilson, holding his
aching sides.
"Crumbs! One would think she was old enough to be my mother."
"That's a way they have, when they're not feeling quite the thing. No
wonder, poor girl."
"Look here, Wilson, keep this dark. I'm not going to write any more
poetry. I've been thinking that, ever since I sent Hilda the ode. I
don't think it's quite the real article."
"No," said Wilson, consolingly; "only original-spirit catching."
"A lot you know about it, old man," said Grim, hotly.
"Granted, Grimmy; but Hilda twigged the fraud, quick enough."
"Well, I'm going to burn it all, right off."
They did. I believe I am doing Grim no injustice when I say he looks
less a poet, and acts up to his looks, than any junior in St. Amory's.
Two nights after the receipt of this fateful letter Grim was
industriously practising Ranjitsinghi's famous glance at a snug, quiet
net, when Miss Varley, accompanied by Miss Cornelia Langton, her
governess, went past the nets. Miss Langton told Hilda afterwards that
she ought not to speak to hard-working cricketers and distract them in
their game. Hilda, I don't think, minded this little wigging, and Grim
never went without a friendly nod as he turned from cutting Wilson into
the nets, if Miss Hilda Elsie Varley went by.
CHAPTER XXVII
CONCERNING TODD AND COTTON
Knowing Acton's pride--his overwhelming pride--I never expected to see
him back at St.
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