At Heriot’s corner, old Bob himself was standing in conversation with Mr. Haigh, the two of them mechanically returning the no less perfunctory salutes of the passing stream. Charles Cave had paused a moment before going on into the house.
“I’m afraid the hero of the morning’s a bit off-colour, Mr. Heriot.”
“Not Rutter?”
Cave nodded.
“He says his head’s bad. I think it must be. It looks to me like a touch of the sun.”
“I hope not,” said Heriot, as Cave passed on. “He really is a fine fellow, Haigh, as well as the fine bowler you’ve just seen once more. I sometimes think you might forget what he was, after all these years.”
“Oh, I’ve nothing against the fellow,” said Haigh, rather grandly. “But I take a boy as I find him, and I found Rutter the most infernal nuisance I ever had in my form.”
“Years ago!”
“Well, at all events, there’s no question of a grudge on my side. I wouldn’t condescend to bear a grudge against a boy.”
Haigh spoke as though he really wished to mean what he said. His general principles were as sound as his heart could be kind, but both were influenced by a temper never meant for schoolmastering. At this moment Jan and Evan hove into sight, and Heriot detained the cricketer of his house, questioned him about his head, reassured himself as to a former authentic attack of measles, and finally agreed with Jan’s suggestion that he should stay quietly in his study until he felt fit to go back to the ground. He did not want any lunch.