I struck a match, and looked at the time. Twenty minutes past two. I sat up in bed, and said confidentially to the bedroom furniture:
“Damn brown holland!”
It must have been somewhat embarrassing for the bedroom furniture I know, but then the thing was getting serious. I was beginning to fear that something had gone wrong with the works.
Now the case would not have been quite so singular had it been a question of a brand-new gown from Paris. But a humble countryfied brown holland! Ah! but was it quite so humble and so countryfied? Wasn’t there a sweeping decision in its build that had “Redfern” on it as legibly as the box in which it came. In fact, the more I meditated on this unpretentious brown holland, the more imposing did it grow. By Jove! it was not half so insignificant as it seemed. In no time I had discovered so many potential charms in its deceitful simplicity, that presently its individuality was merged in that of its wearer. Redfern—good people—beauty no end—weekly refusals—earls, etc.—great cricketing family—brother going out with Stoddart—father awful big pot—no earthly—who was I—silly ass—soap-boiler’s son—not even invited to play for the county—out for seven—couldn’t bat for nuts—why didn’t I go to sleep—brown holland—damn brown holland—sleep so much more desirable—what price her eyes—what was the name of that complexion—wonder if my batting was likely to come on—Archie a pretty fair rustic bat—wonder why all girls didn’t wear brown holland—Zingari colours didn’t look so dusty with that hair—was I ever going to sleep—who said brown holland—should be sure to see her again—Hickory Rectory was just a nice walk—why wasn’t I a county cricketer—rather a pretty name Grace—suited her too! I fell into another doze and dreamt of going in first with Halliday to bat against Middlesex at Lords. I was so nervous and excited that I could hardly walk. When I asked the umpire in a hoarse voice for my guard, and he turned his face towards me, I saw with horrified surprise that he wore brown holland underneath his white coat, and that he had the voice and face of a lady. When she said, “Your bat’s horribly wobbly; Charlie’ll get through that like fun,” the shock was too great to be borne, and I woke up in a sweat.
I was such a dismal dog and my appetite was so delicate, that I breakfasted on tea and toast, and actually elected to peruse a stern indictment of the Government’s Foreign Policy in the Times rather than the Sportsman’s account of yesterday’s county matches. I was sick of cricket. It was such an unsatisfactory game. Besides, it was of no service to the liver. I was certain that that important organ had gone wrong again. Must have advice about it, and do more riding. Sell my bats or burn them, and devote myself to polo. Capital idea!
I was sipping my tea reflectively, and tracing the strange resemblance of its colour to the complexion of the young person in brown holland, when the General Nuisance obtruded his hateful presence through the open window, as his wont was, without any ceremony whatever. He was reeking of self-satisfaction and tobacco smoke.
“Don’t mind if I do,” said he, casting his lighted cigarette on the carpet in a way that promised to ignite it. Pouring himself out a cup of coffee, without waiting to be invited, he said:
“Look pretty chippy this morning, my son. Still fretting about that l.b.w.?”
“Drink your coffee and cut,” said I, as impolitely as I could.
“Want to be alone, eh?” said he. “Why that’s a symptom. Let’s see your tongue. And I’d better feel your pulse.”