The memory was too bitter. If he dwelt on it, he felt, he would get insomnia. So he turned to pleasanter reflections: the yorker which had shattered the second-wicket man, and the slow head-ball which had led to a big hitter being caught on the boundary. Soothed by these memories, he fell asleep.
Next morning he found himself in a softened frame of mind. He thought of Bob’s iniquities with sorrow rather than wrath. He felt towards him much as a father feels towards a prodigal son whom there is still a chance of reforming. He overtook Bob on his way to chapel.
Directness was always one of Burgess’s leading qualities.
“Look here, Bob. About your fielding. It’s simply awful.”
Bob was all remorse.
“It’s those beastly slip catches. I can’t time them.”
“That one yesterday was right into your hands. Both of them were.”
“I know. I’m frightfully sorry.”
“Well, but I mean, why can’t you hold them? It’s no good being a good bat—you’re that all right—if you’re going to give away runs in the field.”
“Do you know, I believe I should do better in the deep. I could get time to watch them there. I wish you’d give me a shot in the deep—for the second.”