Diana said merrily: 'Bravo our side!'
'Bravo, old Tom Redworth'; rejoined Sir Lukin. 'Four, and a three! And capital weather, haven't we: Hope we shall have same sort day next month —return match, my ground. I've seen Tom Redworth score—old days—over two hundred t' his bat. And he used to bowl too. But bowling wants practice. And, Emmy, look at the old fellows lining the booth, pipe in mouth and cheering. They do enjoy a day like this. We'll have a supper for fifty at Copsley's:—it's fun. By Jove! we must have reached up to near the hundred.'
He commissioned a neighbouring boy to hie to the booth for the latest figures, and his emissary taught lightning a lesson.
Diana praised the little fellow.
'Yes, he's a real English boy,' said Emma.
'We 've thousands of 'em, thousands, ready to your hand,' exclaimed Sir Lukin, 'and a confounded Radicalized country . . .' he murmured gloomily of 'lets us be kicked! . . . any amount of insult, meek as gruel! . . . making of the finest army the world has ever seen! You saw the papers this morning? Good heaven! how a nation with an atom of self-respect can go on standing that sort of bullying from foreigners! We do. We're insulted and we're threatened, and we call for a hymn!— Now then, my man, what is it?'
The boy had flown back. 'Ninety-two marked, sir; ninety-nine runs; one more for the hundred.'
'Well reckoned; and mind you're up at Copsley for the return match.— And Tom Redworth says, they may bite their thumbs to the bone—they don't hurt us. I tell him, he has no sense of national pride. He says, we're not prepared for war: We never are! And whose the fault? Says, we're a peaceful people, but 'ware who touches us! He doesn't feel a kick.—Oh! clever snick! Hurrah for the hundred!—Two-three. No, don't force the running, you fools!—though they 're wild with the ball: ha!—no?—all right!' The wicket stood. Hurrah!
The heat of the noonday sun compelled the ladies to drive on.
'Enthusiasm has the privilege of not knowing monotony,' said Emma. 'He looks well in flannels.'