One Saturday night in the summer, I was taking a walk with a friend in the country ten or twelve miles from Manchester. Our talk was of County cricket, in which my companion—a most magnificent person, with ships sailing on half the oceans of the world—was greatly interested. For three days Lancashire had been playing Yorkshire a very close match, and we knew that by now the game would be over.
“We sha’n’t know the result till we get The Sunday Chronicle to-morrow,” said X. regretfully.
But, five minutes later, we met, most miraculously, a newsboy with a bundle of papers under his arm.
X. took a penny from his pocket, handed it to the boy, and received The Evening News in exchange.
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]“Very sorry, sir,” said the boy, “but I’ve got no change. I’ve got no halfpennies.”
X. turned to me.
“Oh, I’ve no change either,” said I, amused.
With an exclamation of annoyance, X. handed the paper back to the boy and pocketed his penny.
After we had proceeded a few paces:
“Lancashire has won by two wickets,” he said. “I saw it in the corner in the Stop Press news.”