"I never thought of that," said Jerrold. (It was pretty rotten.) …
"I could ask him to bowl to me and let him get me out."
"He'd do that in any case."
"Still—I'll have asked him."
But it seemed that Pinkney was in no mood to think of cricket, and they had to be content with begging his pardon, which he gave, as he said, "freely." Yet it struck them that he looked sadder than a booby-trap should have made him.
It was just before bed-time that Eliot told them the awful thing.
"I suppose you know," he said, "that Pinkney's mother's dying?"
"I didn't," said Jerrold. "But I might have known. I notice that when you're excited, really excited, something awful's bound to happen…. Don't cry, Anne. It was beastly of us, but we didn't know."
"No. It's no use crying," said Eliot. "You can't do anything."
"That's it," Anne sobbed. "If we only could. If we could go to him and tell him we wouldn't have done it if we'd known."
"You jolly well can't. It would only bother the poor chap. Besides, it was Jerry did it. Not you."