Strolling in, nonchalantly adjusting his left-hand glove, was the very last person I expected to see there—Anthony Bathurst.
“Bless you, Bill,” he smiled. “Seeing you is a reward in itself.”
“But I had no idea——”
“What on earth?” queried Jack.
“Tell you later,” grinned Anthony; “Umpire, Middle and leg, if you please.”
He didn’t get a lot. But when we got into lunch he told us that Hurst had cried off from the game, developed measles or spotted fever or something, and he had been roped in, being handy. He was staying near Bramber and going on to Canterbury for the “Old Stagers.” Angus McKinnel and Gerry Crookley were great chums of his, and as the entertainments of Canterbury Week were in their hands as usual, they had been only too glad for him to help them.
Everybody, of course, was delighted, for Considine Manor had heard much of Anthony Bathurst from both Jack and me.
Sir Charles immediately issued an invitation.
“Stay on, my dear fellow! I shall be charmed, I assure you. Stay till the Bank Holiday—then motor over.”
“Thanks, I will. It’s good of you.” Anthony accepted the offer.