Roderick walked back to the pavilion with his father very proudly. “You’ll have to be very careful how you play Hirst,” he said.
“I shall,” said his father; “but why?”
“Because the men were saying he’s going to get you.” Mr. Bulstrode laughed; but he thought it very likely too.
I’m not going to tell you all about the match, for it lasted three days, and was very much like other matches. Roderick had a corner seat in the pavilion, where he could see everything, and for the first day he scored every run and kept the analysis right through. This included his father’s innings, which lasted, alas! far too short a time, for, after making four good hits to the boundary, he was caught close in at what was called silly mid-on off—what bowler do you think?—George Hirst.
But the next day Roderick gave up work, because he wanted to see more of Tom, and Tom made room for him in the professionals’ box while Yorkshire were in, and he saw all the wonderful men—quite close too—Tunnicliffe and Denton and Hirst—and even talked with them. Hirst sat right in front of the box, with his brown sunburned arms on the ledge, and his square, jolly, sunburned face on his arms, and said funny things about the play in broad Yorkshire; and now and then he would say something to Roderick. And then suddenly down went a wicket, and Hirst got up to go in.
“Give me a wish for luck,” he said to Roddy.
“I wish my father may catch you out,” said Roddy; “but not until,” he added, “you have made a lot of runs.”
“If he does,” said Hirst, “I’ll give thee some practice to-morrow morning.”
Poor Roddy, this was almost too much. It is bad enough to watch your favourites batting at any time, for every ball may be the last; but it is terrible when you equally want two people to bring something off—for Roddy wanted Hirst (whom he now adored) to make a good innings, and, at the same time, he wanted his father to catch Hirst out.
Hirst was not out when it was time for lunch, and so Roderick was able to tell his father all about it.