What I really wished to say to the wicket-keeper was (1) that it was the first fast wicket I had played on this summer; (2) that it was my first nought this season, and, hang it, even Fry made noughts sometimes; and (3) that personally I always felt that it didn't matter what one made oneself so long as one's side was victorious. What I actually said was shorter; but I expect the wicket-keeper understood just as well. He seemed an intelligent fellow.
After that, I walked nine miles back to the pavilion.
The next man was brushing his hair in the dressing-room.
"What's happened?" he asked.
"Nothing," I said truthfully.
"But you're out, aren't you?"
"I mean that nothing has eventuated—accrued, as it were."
"Blob? Bad luck. Is my parting straight?"
"It curls a bit from leg up at the top, but it will do. Mind you make some. I always feel that so long as one's side is victorious——"
But he was gone. I brushed my own hair very carefully, lit a cigarette, and went outside to the others. I always think that a nought itself is nothing—the way one carries it off is everything. A disaster, not only to himself but also to his side, should not make a man indifferent to his personal appearance.