“Many thanks,” said Tom. “I shall ask you again about it, if I may.”
Tom went to his rooms, and addressed his piano dramatically. “That is a tutor,” he said.
He went up rather late to cricket, being the captain, and having warned every one that the match was going to begin at two sharp, won the toss, went in himself, and got bowled during the first over, in trying to slog a well-pitched ball over long-on’s head.
“I vote we declare the innings closed,” he said, as he returned to the pavilion. “To close our innings for one run would be so original that it would be really worth while just once. Hit them about, Teddy, and make a century!”
Tom had the satisfaction of seeing his side make between two and three hundred, but however gratifying this was to him as a member of the team, it was tempered with other feelings. He went and bowled at the nets for half an hour, watched the game a little, and felt that his applause was hollow. Markham was playing characteristically; that is to say, he left dangerous balls on the off alone, hit hard and well at badly pitched ones, and played good-length balls with care and precision.
“There’s no fun in that,” thought Tom to himself; “any one can do that. All the same any one can get out first ball, like me, if they play the ass.”
Markham was in about an hour, and when it was over he and Tom went to get tea.
“I wish you’d had a decent innings instead of me,” said Markham, as they walked off to the pavilion.
“Nonsense, Teddy; you played very well.”
“I mean you enjoy it much more than I do.”