Wilhelmina seemed scarcely to realize the tragedy which his words unfolded.
“I suppose they are the stronger team, aren’t they?” she remarked. “They ought to be. Nesborough is quite a large town.”
“We have beaten them regularly until the last two years,” Mr. Hurd answered. “We should beat them now but for their fast bowler, Mills. I don’t know how it is, but our men will not stand up to him.”
“Perhaps they are afraid of being hurt,” Wilhelmina suggested innocently. “If that is he bowling now, I’m sure I don’t wonder at it.”
Mr. Hurd frowned.
“We don’t have men in the eleven who are afraid of getting hurt,” he remarked stiffly.
A shout of dismay from the onlookers, a smothered exclamation from Mr. Hurd, and a man was seen on his way to the pavilion. His wickets were spreadeagled, and the ball was being tossed about the field.
“Another wicket!” the agent exclaimed testily. “Crooks played all round that ball!”
“Isn’t that your son going in, Mr. Hurd?” Wilhelmina asked.