I was in the middle of the Sportsman and my fourth egg when William appeared with a countenance of tragedy.
“I can’t find it, sir; it’s clean gone!” he said.
“Not the bat with the wrapping at the bottom?” I gasped, turning pale.
“No, sir; worse than that,” he said.
“Speak!” I cried; “what is it?”
“Your cap,” he said. “The one you made the 82, the 61, and 67 not out in.”
“What, the Authentics! It must be found, or I don’t go in to-day. Couldn’t get a run without that cap.”
The sweat stood on my brow.
“It’s my belief, sir,” said William darkly, “that this here’s a bit O’ Hickory. They knows how, like W. G., its always one particular cap you gets your runs in, and they’ve had it took according.”
This was very nice of William. His tact was charming. But the idea of my facing Hickory without my lucky cap was as monstrous as the captain going out to toss without his George II. shilling.