“Thank you kindly, miss,” said Wiggles, with a groan. He was Little Clumpton to the marrow. The poor wretch cast a despairing glance at the Ancient and myself, while we practised in the most assiduous manner.
Suddenly a peal of laughter came from the young person in brown holland. It seemed that the sight-board in front of a dark fringe of trees behind the bowler’s arm had attracted her polite attention.
“Charlie’s arm’ll be over that,” she cried delightedly. “We’ll put him on that end.”
“Ancient,” said I, “do you hear what that—that girl’s saying? Why doesn’t that idiot Wiggles order her off the field? If she stops there much longer we’re a beaten team.”
Just then she turned her attention to us engaged in practice. Now the sight of this—this person who was so busily occupied in laying traps and pitfalls for Little Clumpton’s overthrow enraged me to that degree that I determined to get rid of her by uncompromising methods. She stood in the exact line of my crack to cover.
“Ancient,” I said, “just chuck up a nice half-volley on the off, and I’ll make this place a bit too hot for that young person in brown holland.”
The Ancient lost no time in becoming accessory before the fact, and, throwing my leg across, I put in every ounce I’d got.
“Oh, goo—od stroke! goo—od stroke!” cried our intended victim in a very joyful voice. And we had the privilege of witnessing the young person we were conspiring to remove calmly place her feet and hands together, as per Steel and Lyttelton, and field and return that red-hot drive in the neatest, cleanest, county style.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said I.
“If she’s fielding cover for them,” said the Ancient grimly, “somebody’ll be run out. We’d better advise Lennox and Jack Comfort not to try to steal ’em. I shan’t go for short ’uns, I can tell you.”