THE NEW GAME
" What shall we do to-day ? " said Ginger. There was in his voice a certain touching confidence in fate as a never-failing provider of thrills.
They looked at William. William was generally fate's instrument in the providing of thrills.
" I think," said William with a rather self-conscious nonchalance as if pretending—only pretending, of course—to be unaware of the originality of his suggestion, " I think we'll try greyhound racin' for a change."
" Greyhound racin' ?" repeated the Outlaws in surprise.
They had expected William to say pirates or Red Indians or perhaps smugglers, but greyhound racing was so novel, so unexpected, so daring and up-to-date, that they could only repeat the words and stare at William helplessly.
" Yes," said William, still with his exaggerated nonchalance, " I—I heard Robert an' some other people talkin' about it last night. It seemed—sort of simple. It seemed jus' the sort of thing we could do."
It was Douglas who voiced the first objection.
" But—we haven't got any greyhounds."
" We've got Jumble," said William with spirit.
Jumble was William's dog, though some people thought that dog was too definite a term for Jumble.
Ginger laid his ringer at once upon the weak spot in William's argument.
" Jumble isn't a greyhound," he said.