“Cheery,” said Grace, “go and lend a hand to Biffin. There is he tugging away like a horse, and you stand grinning at him.”
“It was not at Biffin, I can assure you,” the Optimist said.
“I must have been mistaken then,” said the adroit Grace; “it was only your way of looking interested.”
“Oh, no, it was not,” said the Optimist, “I was laughing at——”
“Don’t interrupt, please,” said my tutor, “and don’t argue.”
Really my tutor was the very essence of good breeding! I continued to bowl without enjoyment, without inspiration, without conviction even. For I was distressingly alive to the fact that my bowling was exactly what bowling ought not to be. To adopt the technical language of my tutor: “It’s a good length, Dimmy, at your own end. Be careful, old chap, or you’ll trap your toes.”
It had neither length, nor pace, nor direction. It had absolutely nothing to recommend it. There was a timidity, a meekness, an air of apology about it that positively invited batsmen to hit it very hard indeed.
“You really must get your arm a bit higher,” said my tutor. “Bring it right over, you know. And get your fingers round the seam—so; only two besides the thumb. Tuck t’others underneath a bit, and give ’em a sort of jerk, and flick your wrist a bit just as you deliver.”
“Ye-es,” said I; “ye-es, ye-es.”
“Got the idea?” said Grace.