“Well,” said I, “unless it’s found I don’t get a run to-day.”
“I can tell you, sir,” said William, “that I’d rather lose my perquisites than that this should have ’appened at Little Clumpton v. Hickory. But there’s the Winchester, and the Magdalen, and the M.C.C. Couldn’t you get some in one of them, sir?”
“Daren’t risk it,” I said, “not at Little Clumpton v. Hickory. Yet, let me see, hasn’t Mr. Thornhill one of the Authentics?”
“Why, Lor’ bless me, that he ’ave, sir!”
“Well, get your bike at once, give my compliments and kind regards to Mr. Thornhill and tell him I’ve lost my Authentics and will he lend me his. Explain that it’s Little Clumpton v. Hickory, and that I can only get runs in the Authentics. It’s now eight-twenty, and it’s eighteen miles to Mr. Thornhill’s place. Can you bring it to me by eleven?”
“Well, sir, if I don’t, you’ll know I’ve burst a tyre.”
Within five minutes William was riding to Thornhill’s as if his life depended on it, with the stable-boy to pace him.
CHAPTER III
LITTLE CLUMPTON v. HICKORY
I CAME down to the ground at a little after ten. The match was to begin at eleven, sharp. The only sights of interest on my arrival were the ground-man marking out the crease, and the Worry at the nets in a brand-new outfit. The “pro” and three small boys were striving to knock a shilling off his middle.
“You’re touching ’em pretty this morning, Daunton,” said I, out of pure excellence of heart. I wished him to keep up his pecker.