“Ground-man,” she said, “has this turf any tendency to crumble?”
“No, it ain’t,” said the ground-man savagely.
Having laid her doubts in this direction, she proceeded to view the wicket lengthwise. Setting her alert tanned face in a precise line with the stumps, she said:—
“Ground-man, are you sure that these sticks are quite plumb!”
“If they ain’t it’s the fust time i’ thirty yeer.”
“But surely the leg peg your end wants pulling out a bit. That’ll do. It’s all right now.”
When the utterly demoralised Wiggles discovered that he had unconsciously obeyed the behests of the young person in brown holland, I never saw a man who more regretted his own inability to kick himself.
“Well, ground-man,” she said slowly and reflectively, “I think this wicket is good enough for a Test Match. Here’s a shilling for you.”
The hesitation of Wiggles was really painful. A shilling is a shilling always, but how could a self-respecting ground-man accept one in these humiliating circumstances? His views on political economy, however, reconciled his outraged feelings to this added insult. He took the shilling with a defiant air.
“And, ground-man,” she said, “mind that I tip you for every individual century that is got for Hickory to-day.”