The game went on with varying fortune. The star batsman ran himself out, and hotly disputed the Squire’s decision, daring to affirm that his lordship would have rendered another verdict. The Squire treated such incidents humourously, as not the least amusing part of village cricket. Fordingbridge rebuked the misdemeanant, saying in a loud voice:
“Don’t be a damned fool, Dave Misselbrook! I’m ashamed of you.”
Dave retreated. The batsman at the other end observed apologetically:
“Dave ain’t hisself. His young ’ooman give him the chuck las’ week.”
Fordingbridge took this bit of gossip seriously—
“Did she? I must have a talk with the baggage.”
Lionel laughed, but he was much impressed. Fordingbridge, as he recalled him, a man who raced, and hunted from Melton, and kept late hours and loose company, had indeed changed. Curiosity consumed him to see the “topper,” surely a worker of miracles. Then his thoughts wandered to Joyce. Was she sitting upon the Vicarage lawn with Moxon? Why had Moxon returned so quickly? Had she whistled? Confound it! Thinking of Joyce, an easy catch was missed. Loud cheers from Long-Baddeley. “You duffer!” growled the Squire. Fishpingle shook his head sorrowfully.
At midday the spectators began to arrive. Margot and Lady Pomfret wandered round the ground, talking to the village fathers and mothers, who sat placidly beneath the oaks and beeches. Lady Pomfret anticipated diversion where it was likely to be met.
“This,” she murmured to Margot, “is a character.” They were approaching an old woman, who had been wheeled on to the ground in a bath-chair. She sat erect, tremendously interested in a game she did not understand. A grandson was fielding hard by.