This didn’t bother me in the least. I merely felt a trifle annoyed that my ardour had caused me to let off so bad a ball. But my pleasant meditations were suddenly disturbed by adjacent voices,—
“Chuckerrupp!”
It never entered my head that I could be out by any possibility. The ball was a very vulgar long hop. I looked at the umpire with an air of bewilderment. He had a stolid solemnity that was funereal. I saw his hand go up. Thereon, with the blood buzzing into my ears, I made tracks for the pavilion. All the way I went I could not realize that I was out. My only sensation was the not unpleasing one of walking swiftly. Dead silence reigned as I marched in head down, thinking of nothing in particular. But the vision of the umpire’s upthrown hand seemed to be painted on my retina.
The Ancient was in the dressing-room brandishing his bat.
“Rough luck, old man!” he said.
Thereupon he went out to take my vacant place at the wicket, while I sat down, slowly mopped my wet face, rinsed my parched mouth, and then proceeded to take my pads off in the dullest, most apathetic manner.
CHAPTER VI
Of a Young Person in Brown Holland
I WAS still seated, striving to break to myself the news that I really must be out, and that my brave dreams were as dust, when the man I least desired to see—the General Nuisance—appeared with his condolence. He placed a shilling in my hand with an air of indescribable tenderness.
“What’s this for?” I said.
“For your cricket outfit,” said he. “I knew that you’d wish to dispose of it at once by private treaty, as you’ll never touch a bat again if you live to be a hundred. A shilling for the lot, and a pretty liberal offer.”