“I suppose, Jimmy,” said the young man at last, in sheer desperation, driven by the inflexible rules of politeness to speak, yet not knowing in the least what to say, “that those street-per—those gentlemen in the white suits are what you call Surrey?”
“You are positively brilliant this morning, Luney,” said his mentor. “You sparkle. Upon my word, you are nearly as bright as the sun.”
After standing two hours in that broiling heat, and as he was growing somewhat dizzy, owing to the effects of that concentrated fireball upon the back of his neck, the players trooped off the field of play in search of refreshment, whereupon Mr. Dodson solemnly instructed him to sit on an adjacent mound of withered grass to await his own return, assuring him “that he was not half smart enough to forage for himself at the Oval on August Bank Holiday.”
In the course of half-an-hour Mr. Dodson did return, bearing two corkless bottles covered with oozing white froth, and four substantial and extremely indigestible-looking pork pies.
“Catch hold,” said Mr. Dodson, handing Mr. William Jordan, Junior, his share of these delicacies.
“The pies are topping, ain’t they?” said Mr. Dodson, after his teeth had met therein with immense satisfaction to themselves.
Mr. Dodson then applied his mouth to the neck of a bottle.
“There is nothing in this world,” said Mr. Dodson, after having sucked an immoderate quantity of froth, “whatever there may be in the next, to compare with a bottle of Bass.”
Mr. Dodson returned with renewed vigour to the pork pies.
“Buck up, Luney,” he said, as he masticated the last succulent morsel. “The players will be out again in five minutes. Why, man, what the dickens are you up to! Your Bass is all over the grass, and your pies are underneath it. Luney, you idiot!—’pon my word, I do believe the wretched lunatic has fainted.”