The first thing Roderick did the next morning was to buy a scoring-book and a pencil, and then he and his father explored Sheffield a little before it was time to go to the ground at Bramall Lane and get some practice.
The people clustered all round and in front of the nets and watched the batsmen, and now and then they were nearly killed, as always happens before a match. They pointed out the cricketers to each other.
“There’s Warner,” they said. “That’s Bosanquet—the tall one.” “Where’s Trott? Why, there, bowling at Warner. Good old Alberto!” and so on.
“Who’s the man in the end net?” Roderick heard some one ask.
“I don’t know. One of Middlesex’s many new men, I suppose,” said the other.
“But he can hit a bit, can’t he?” the first man said, as Roderick’s father stepped out to a ball and banged it half-way across the ground.
Roderick was very proud, and he felt that the time had come to make his father known. “That’s Bulstrode,” he said.
“Oh, that’s Bulstrode, is it?” said the second man. “I’ve heard of him. He makes lots of runs on the M.C.C. tours. But I guess Georgy’ll get him.”
“Who is Georgy?” asked Roderick.
“Georgy—why, where do you come from? Fancy being in Sheffield and asking who Georgy is. Georgy is Georgy Hirst, of course.”