Hamlin and Fishpingle were now batting. The old Cambridge “blue” exhibited form in its highest manifestation. Upon a pitch, now none too good, he stopped or struck every ball with absolute accuracy, timing them perfectly. Fishpingle presented the village “stone-waller,” intent only upon keeping up his wicket and letting the Parson score. Runs came slowly. Lionel told Margot that amateur bowlers lost their length against a stubborn defence. Then he said abruptly:
“But, of course, you are bored.”
“No, very much the contrary. I have seen nothing like this for years. I like it—the enthusiasm is infectious. As for the villagers, I wouldn’t change them for the world. That dear old woman, Mrs. Parish—! The row of granfers on the bench—! Two of the darlings are wearing smocks. Your professor would change all that; give him a free hand, and he would people the countryside with men and women cut to pattern, all aping their betters, and all discontented.”
“Why do you call him my professor?”
“He nearly got you. I suppose he belongs to Miss Hamlin.”
“Not yet, I fancy.” Lionel replied stiffly.
“Ah, well, she will be foolish, if she lets him slip through her fingers. Mr. Moxon and I have agreed to disagree, but I like him. He will make his mark. What are they cheering for?”
“Fishpingle is out. Now we may have some fun. The village slogger takes his place.”
The slogger rolled out of the marquee, disdaining pads or gloves. Nether-Applewhite cheered, anticipating much leather-hunting.
“You hit ’un, Joe!”—“Stretch their legs for ’un, lad!”—“Ah-h-h! Now for a bit o’ sport.”