An oak box, lined with baize and fitted with a lock and key, had been specially constructed to hold the cup when it was carried to and from the cricket ground; and, as the assembly began to disperse, Herbert carefully deposited the trophy in its appointed case, which he then locked, and put the key in his pocket.
"I say," he remarked, handing the box to Buckle, the long-stop, "I wish you'd take care of this, and carry it back with you. I want to run down town and send off a telegram. I told my people I'd wire if we won."
The interior of the pavilion was forbidden ground except to the privileged few; but on an occasion such as the present the rule was not so rigidly enforced, and a motley crowd pressed in after the players to congratulate the winners and glance at the scoring sheets.
Buckle was a good-natured giant, a strong tower as long-stop, but rather a clown in many ways; and, as might have been expected in the present instance, he became the subject of a good bit of friendly chaff and joking.
"Take care of that cup, Buckle; don't lose it!"
"No fear!" answered the long-stop with a grin.
"Well, don't bang it about; we shall want it returned next year exactly as you got it."
"You've got to win it first," chuckled Buckle, putting the case down upon a locker, and preparing to take off his spiked shoes.
Brise, the captain of cricket, elbowed his way through the crush.
"Is Herbert here?" he asked.