“Once for all, I don’t want your drawings. I’ve no time to look at them. Good morning.”
The tone was so chilling that a returning “good morning” trembled on Becky’s lips. The tears sprang to her eyes. It seemed to her for a moment that all was lost. But, remembering the friends she must meet with the story of her defeat, remembering the captain patiently waiting in the street for her return, she yet lingered, hoping that a little reflection might produce a change in the temper of this gruff proprietor, and gain her a hearing. Profound silence; eyes glued to their sockets; not even the tools of the workmen broke the stillness, for these woodpeckers tapped no hollow oak tree, but pecked at solid boxwood, which emits no sound. Her eyes roved about the room until they fastened on the cricket-bat above the desk. They glistened at the sight.
“O, what a splendid cricket-bat!” she cried.
“Is that yours, sir? Did you win it?”
Mr. Woodfern raised his head, with a faint show of interest.
“Yes, I won it. What do you know about cricket?”
“I know it’s just the most splendid game I ever played,” replied Becky, with enthusiasm.
“You play cricket!” said Mr. Woodfern, in surprise.
“Yes, indeed; but it was long ago. I was a famous hand at it, too, though I do say it. Please, sir, let me take it down. I won’t hurt it.”