He sent his first few balls so disgracefully wide as to evoke a storm of jeers from the town supporters, who, it must be confessed, had no scruples of sportsmanship to hold them in check.
With Billy, this sort of treatment meant that he would really wake up and show what he was made of. He raged inwardly, but he seemed perfectly calm as he strolled back from the crease, his leisurely gait drawing more comment from the crowd.
"What price Algernon?"
"Look out—he's going to bowl!"
"Don't hurry—all day yet!"
Billy was one of those fellows who are seldom disconcerted by chaff such as that. But he was stung; and showed it by the deadly intent he put into his next ball, which hissed furiously for the wicket in dismaying fashion. But the leviathan of the Windsor team whirled his bat and smote the ball generously.
Mid-on was in two minds about the ball. It was coming to him very fast, and would probably hurt severely if he stopped it. On the other hand, it was a catch—of a sort. He had not decided whether to try for it or leave it—which is a detestable state of mind for any fieldsman—when it was upon him. He made a belated, miserable attempt—and missed by feet.
Instantly the scorn of the townsmen was poured out upon him.
"Butter-fingers!"
"Get a bag!"