" All
men in any keen athletic contest, as remembered by Mr.
Sims, were pretty well "tanked up." For the lighter,
nimbler games such as tennis, they were reported
"spifflocated" and in that shape performed prodigies of
agility.
"You'll know Ned," said Mr. Sims, "by his big shoulders."
I went downstairs.
The reception room below was empty, except for one man,
a little, gentle-looking man with spectacles. He wore
black clothes with a waistcoat reaching to the throat,
a white tie and a collar buttoned on backwards. Ned Purvis
was a clergyman! His great hulking shoulders had gone
the way of all my good friend's reminiscences.
I brought him upstairs.
For a moment, in the half light of the room, Mr. Sims
was still deceived.
"Well, Ned!" he began heartily, with a struggle to rise
from his chair--then he saw the collar and tie of the
Rev. Mr. Purvis, and the full horror of the thing dawned
upon him. Nor did the three gin cocktails, which Mr. Sims
had had stationed ready for the reunion, greatly help
its geniality. Yet it had been a maxim, in the recollections
of Mr. Sims, that when any of the boys blew in anywhere
the bringing of drinks must be instantaneous and uproarious.
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