To do her justice, she was certainly a source of comfort to the eye. When she yielded the reins and stood up on the footboard she had that air of simple resolution that is the source of England’s pride.
She was so tall and trim and strong, there was such a decision in her curves that her brown holland with white cuffs and collar, her Zingari tie, and hat-band of the same red and yellow brilliance round a straw, with heavy coils of hair of a proper country fawn-colour beneath, lent her that look of candid capability that nature generally reserves for cricketers of the highest order. I never gave the cracks from Hickory a second thought. Everything about her was so clean, so cool, so absolute, that before she had left the box I had quite convinced myself that whoever she might be she was a young person whose habit was to do things.
“Catch!” she cried, and threw down the Hickory score-book.
She then superintended the unlading of the coach roof of its pile of brown and battered cricket bags, whilst the crowd pressed nearer to the wheels and evinced the liveliest concern as to “which is A. H.? And who’s the tall chap? And who’s the Parson? And don’t he look a funny little cuss? And who’s the very tall chap? ’Im wi’ the big ’ead? H. C. o’ course. And who’s the lamp-post? And that theer fleshy bloke who’d got three boys to carry his bag, a fourth to carry his hat, and a fifth his newspaper, must be Carteret, because it said in the Daily Chronicle that he was the fattest short-slip in England and took life easily.” Of such are fame’s penalties!
The young person in brown holland having made it her business to see that the bags were bundled down with the necessary degree of violence, said: “I think you men had better go and change immediately. I’ll have a look at the wicket.”
She swung down from the step before any of the men below could lend a hand, and, while the whole eleven moved towards the pavilion with their luggage, the young person in brown holland made her way through the throng with the confidence of a duchess at a charity bazaar, and strode across the grass without the least suspicion of the Meredithian “swim.” And it was quite a coincidence that the Ancient and myself should choose a spot as near the wicket as the unwritten laws allowed, for the purpose of having a little practice.
The ground-man was lingering over the last touches to his masterpiece when the young person in brown holland actually set foot on the sacred earth that the general public is not even permitted to approach. The face of the ground-man was well worth looking at. When the feelings of a great artist are outraged it is a very painful sight. Alas, poor Wiggles! the agony of his countenance no pen could depict. He lifted up his head and emitted a slow-drawn growl. This had no effect whatever. Indeed, an instant later, this most audacious individual had the incredible effrontery to bring down a pretty solid brown boot, by no means of the “little mice” type either, twice upon the pitch itself. It was more than a merely human ground-man could endure.
“Begging pardon, miss,” said he, “but are you aware, miss, that this here is a—a wicket?”
“Well, my dear man,” said the person thus addressed, “do you suppose I thought it was a bunker?”
The Ancient and I agreed that this was an achievement. For a member of the general public to retort effectually on a real live ground-man was as great a feat as to look at the Chinese Emperor. The face of Wiggles was a study. Meanwhile, the lady having sufficiently tried the adamantine surface with her boot, bent down and pressed on it with her thumb. A feather would have slain the miserable Wiggles at that moment. Was it possible that any human creature, let alone the sex, could presume to test, and criticise, and doubt his masterpiece in this way! But worse was coming. Apparently the young person in brown holland was determined to satisfy herself in regard to every detail.