The supper was of the best; the wines first-class. I had
asked Graeme about the wines.
'Do as you like, old man,' was his answer; 'it's your supper, but,' he
added, 'are the men all straight?'
I ran them over in my mind.
'Yes; I think so.'
If not, don't you help them down; and anyway, you can't be too careful.
But don't mind me; I am quit of the whole business from this out.' So I
ventured wines, for the last time, as it happened.
We were a quaint combination. Old 'Beetles,' whose nickname was
prophetic of his future fame as a bugman, as the fellows irreverently
said; 'Stumpy' Smith, a demon bowler; Polly Lindsay, slow as ever and as
sure as when he held the half-back line with Graeme, and used to make my
heart stand still with terror at his cool deliberation. But he was
never known to fumble nor to funk, and somehow he always got us out safe
enough. Then there was Rattray--'Rat' for short--who, from a swell, had
developed into a cynic with a sneer, awfully clever and a good enough
fellow at heart. Little 'Wig' Martin, the sharpest quarter ever seen,
and big Barney Lundy, centre scrimmage, whose terrific roar and rush had
often struck terror to the enemy's heart, and who was Graeme's slave.
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