"Now, my man, I want to have a word with you. You are what is known as a natural bowler. Why you didn't find it out for yourself I can't think. Didn't you, in your extreme infancy, often feel an inclination to stir your porridge with your left hand?"
Pip reflected; and sundry nursery incidents, of no previous import, suddenly acquired a new significance in his mind.
"Yes, sir," he said, "I did. But my nur—my people used to tell me not to, and I got out of the way of it, I suppose."
"They always do it," said Ham sympathetically. "Now, listen. A man may be the fastest and straightest bowler in the world, but unless he has pitch he has nothing, nothing, nothing! A straight ball is no good if it is a long hop or a full pitch, and the only way to acquire the art is to practise and practise and practise until you can drop the ball on a threepenny-bit at twenty yards. Now, if I take you for half an hour at a net after tea for the next few weeks, will you agree to do something for me in return?"
Pip agreed, without asking what the conditions might be.
"What I want you to do," said Ham, "is this." He led the way to the bookshelves at the side of the room. "I want you to read some books for me. Any books will do, but you must read something. I should advise you to begin on something easy. Here are three. This one is called 'Treasure Island'; this big one is 'The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes'; and the yellow one is 'Vice Versâ.' (Don't be afraid: it's all English inside.) Which will you have?"
Pip was somewhat dazed by this eccentric man's behaviour, but he had sufficient sense left to choose the smallest of the proffered volumes. Then he said timidly,—
"Would I have any chance of getting into the Junior House Eleven, sir?"
"M' well, perhaps. Now, hook it. After tea to-morrow at my net, mind."
Later in the evening Mr. Hanbury, enjoying the hospitality of Uncle Bill, remarked,—