Forrester, who had certainly troubled the Nottingham bowlers this time, was more taken aback than he had ever been on the cricket-field where astonishing things do happen. He went to the bedside and sat down there, and pressed the small boy's slender hands; but he had not a thing to say.
"The Sportsman," continued Kenyon, beating the bed with that paper, "says it was a fine display of cricket, and that you're in splendid form just now. So you are. Look what you did against Surrey! Do you remember how that match came after Notts last year, and you left here to play in it? I'm glad it was the other way round this season; and oh, I say, how glad I am you've come!"
"Dear old boy! But—look here—don't you think you might have told me you were like this, old fellow?"
Kenyon tossed his head on the pillow.
"I couldn't. It was too sickening. Besides, I thought——"
"Well?"
"You mightn't be awfully keen to come, you know."
"You needn't have thought that, Kenyon. I can't believe you did think it."
"Well, I won't swear that I did. Anyhow I didn't want you to know before you must—for lots of reasons."