Mr. Dodson’s diagnosis of his friend’s condition proved to be a correct one. He had to lay him upon his back and to obtain water before the eyes could be induced to re-open, and the blood to return to the hollow cheeks. Play had begun, Mr. Dodson was hot and irritable, and he was vowing freely that if he valued his self-respect he must break himself of the habit of dragging round this hopeless subject to acquaint it with “life”; yet in spite of all this, when the young man at last opened his eyes, his mentor said, quite kindly, “Was it the heat, old boy?”
“Yes—the heat,” said William Jordan faintly.
Mr. Dodson conducted his friend to the shade that was afforded by the back of an immense stand, upon which several thousands of human beings—wedged as tightly together as dried figs in a box—braved the broiling heat of the airless afternoon, craning and tiptoeing to witness a trial of skill of a curiously inconsequent and macabre kind, with whose niceties the vast majority were very imperfectly acquainted.
“You will be all right here, old boy,” said Mr. Dodson, propping up his friend, and taking off his own coat to form a pillow for his head. “You will be nice and cool here. Lie quite still, and I will get you a drop of brandy.”
As Mr. Dodson made his way through the crowd to an awning, upon which was displayed the word “Refreshments,” there was a demonstration of approval from many thousands of pairs of hands.
“What’s up?” demanded Mr. Dodson, as he passed along. “Is Gunn out?”
“No,” said a spectator, who was perspiring freely in spite of the fact that he wore a halo of cabbage-leaves under his straw hat. “They are putting on young Cox.”
“Time they did,” said Mr. Dodson.
For a moment a Titanic struggle was waged in the bosom of the philosopher. He could not forbear to pause a moment to watch how his friend Joe Cox fared in his hour of trial, yet even before he beheld him deliver his first ball, he bent his neck again to the stern yoke of duty. Hurriedly he went on his way for the brandy.
As he returned bearing this stimulant, he stayed again for an instant to inquire of his informant of the cabbage-leaves, how young Cox was bowling?