“Don’t spoon it up like that! You’d have been caught out for a dead cert if you had hit it!”
A second attempt was made.
“You are a duffer! Show her how to hold the bat, someone.”
Lydia’s third effort mysteriously succeeded in knocking down the improvised stumps behind her, whilst the ball, still unhit, was neatly caught by a nine-year-old Swaine child.
“Oh, I say, this is awfully slow!” remonstrated Bob.
“She’s out now, anyway.”
“Give her another chance,” said Olive, “let her finish the over, anyway. There’s no scoring, what’s it matter?”
“Two more balls, then.”
But there was only one more ball. Lydia, desperately determined to succeed once at least, exerted her whole strength miraculously, hit the ball fair and square, and knew a momentary triumph as it flew off the bat.
There was an ear-piercing shriek from Olive, and Lydia, terrified, saw her fling up both hands to her face and stagger round and round where she stood.