“Thanks, old chap,” said I, “you’re a great consolation. But I’m going to have such a good try. Besides, although she’s a Trentham, she’s also a girl.”
“Can you bowl?” said the Optimist, with brutal brevity.
“Oh, damn!” said I, and proceeded to smoke savagely for the space of three minutes, as my manner was in some danger of losing its repose.
“Your bowling’s positively putrid,” the Optimist said. “And she can hit hard. Lots of the family muscle, and her eye’s perfect.”
“I’m trusting to my batting,” said I.
“You’ll find it a broken reed,” said he, “when you come to play her curly ones. You haven’t met ’em yet, have you?”
“No, worse luck,” said I.
“She’s got her guv’nor’s curl, you know. Horrible things that swerve in the air and then break back again. You heard what the boys said? And they’ve not exaggerated ’em a bit. They’re indescribably infernal.”
I tried to play the stoic. With this purpose in view, I discarded my pipe and settled myself for peace, perfect peace. But I was just as likely to send down a good length ball as to get to sleep just then.
“It’s no good malingering,” said the Optimist, at the end of ten minutes; “you are no more in slumber’s lap than I am.”