The little man did not look by any means reassured by my tone of derision. He seemed more inclined to take to his heels than to take his place at the wickets. It is not impossible that he might have done so had he not been addressed from a different quarter.
"Bob Sapsworth!" It was Mr. Benyon calling to the little barber right across the field. "Come and be shaved!"
I own that I myself was startled. The words were apposite, to say the least of it. We had just been speaking of Mr. Sapsworth's experience of the shaver's art as practised by Mr. Benyon's hands, and here was Mr. Benyon's namesake inviting him, if not to be cut, at least to come again. On Mr. Sapsworth the effect of the invitation was surprising. He had on his pads, his bat was in his hand. Without a word he shuffled towards the stumps. If ever I saw a man go to the wickets in a state of "mortal funk," I saw him then.
I myself moved towards the scoring-tent. The state of things within it at once impressed me as peculiar. It had been filled, a little time ago, with jovial faces. Now, the owners of those faces might have been attendants at a funeral. And many a man has had a livelier following to the grave than I saw assembled then.
Fenning came shambling into the tent. I spoke to him.
"Mr. Benyon's bowling was too much for you, eh, Fenning?"
Unless I am mistaken, Mr. Fenning wiped a tear out of his eye. He certainly put up his hand and rubbed the optic with his knuckles.
"I never seed such bowling! 'Tain't fair!" he said.
"What is there unfair about it, Fenning?"
"It comes so sharp. I never seed the ball afore there was my wickets down."