"If only we'd topped the century!" groaned Billy Faraday, at the end of the first day's play, as it was a two days' match. "It mightn't have looked so bad, then. But now—!"
"We've got to pull up—that's the only thing," came the answer of Martin, across the luncheon-table. "Slog for all we're worth when we get in next time—and chance it. But, first of all, we'll have to shake up our dreadfully crook bowling. Of all the feeble lobs, those of Screw's were the feeblest and the lobbiest I ever saw."
"Here," protested Screw. "Here, I say—"
"Don't argue, Screwdriver, old boy! You know you were just absolutely off—"
"Well, you needn't—"
"No, but I choose to. I want to wake you up—to rouse you into something remotely resembling form! Mind, you're not the only one. I was worse myself. Only it's never any good relying on me."
"Rats," said Screw politely. He knew very well that when Martin assumed this flippant mood he was liable to do damage to someone or something. When Martin declared that it was no use to rely on him he meant that he was out to perform wonders. But as he led his team out into the field next day and gave the ball to Screw for the opening over of the second innings, his dogged chin was stuck out defiantly.
"Now, Screwdriver! This is a ball—for bowling with, not for serving up to the batsmen in suitable form for boundary hits. See whether you can hit the wicket. The wicket's the three little sticks with bits of wood called bails—"
"Gimme the ball," said Screw sharply; and Martin looked to see how the first ball of the innings would turn out.
Screw, with his mettle roused by Martin's chaff, took a short run and fired down a perfectly horrible delivery, that whizzed off the pitch and went a foot over the batsman's head. The next ball the batsman fumbled, and jerked out to cover. Martin watched for the next ball....