The game was resumed. For an hour it was tedious watching. The new batsman snatched a run now and then, while Old Everlasting blocked every ball that came to him with the same want of enterprise and the same boundless self-satisfaction. At length his partner was caught in the long field; the sixth wicket had fallen, and the score was no more than forty-five.
"Give you three to one against the rustics, Frank," said Lord Godolphin.
"I'll take you, sir, though 'tis a risk. Who's our next man?"
"'Tis our bowler friend, the young sprig of a parson, unless I mistake," said my lord. "What's the lad's name, gaffer?"
"'Tis Henry Winterborne Rochester, my lard, by the water o' baptism; too rich a name for poor folks like we. Young pa'son we calls un mostly."
"A limber youth. I like his looks, eh, Frank? Does he bat as well as he bowls?"
"Middlen, my lord, middlen," said Sherebiah. "Has a good eye, but a deal o' growen to do afore he can smite the ball as it should. But there, my lord, he as can't do what he would must do what he can, as you med say."
"Nothen truer, boy," said his father approvingly. "Ay, 'tis a pretty lad. Gi' un a cheer, souls."
"Mum, feyther," expostulated Sherebiah. "Old Squire's comen back-along this way; little sticks kindle fires, as you med say."
"True. I be a timbersome man, afeard o' Squire, though you med n't think it. Well!"