“Certainly,” said Mr. Woodfern, rising from his chair. “Handle it as much as you like.”
He took it from its place, put it in Becky’s hands, and resumed his seat, watching the girl with a lively interest, for cricket was a passion with him age could not smother. Becky took the bat and handled it like a true cricketer, placing herself in graceful positions, to display her knowledge of its use.
“Now, if we only had a ball!”
“If we had! We have,” said Mr. Woodfern, opening a drawer in his table, and producing a cricket ball. “Now, what next?”
“Bowl me a ball, and you shall see,” replied Becky, placing herself before an imaginary wicket.
The sight of a cricketer in position was enough to excite the enthusiastic sportsman; and when Becky shouted, “Play!” without a moment’s thought he bowled a swift ball. Becky struck quick and hard; it flew across the room, into the work-shop, and struck a glass globe. There was a crash, and the imprisoned water poured on to the head of the youngest woodpecker in a miniature deluge. He sprang up, shouting, “Help, help!”
“Gracious! what have I done?” faltered the terrified Becky.
Mr. Woodfern colored to the tuft of the oasis in the bald desert on his head, but quietly rose, shut the door between the two rooms, and resumed his seat.
“It’s of no consequence. Let me see your drawings.”