The last ball of the over, and the ninth of our hopes had fallen. A pause ensued. The batsman came limping towards the tent. Mr. Hedges' time was come; he clutched at the seat with the frenzy of despair.
"Bill Hedges!" sang out Mr. Benyon; but Mr. Hedges gave no sign. "Bill Hedges!" Still no reply. "Bill Hedges, have I got to come and fetch you?"
At that awful threat the old gentleman did rise. His ample form went waddling across the ground.
"I--I'm a-coming, Tom. I--I ain't no cricketer, Tom. Do--don't you be too hard on me. If you must hit me, let it be behind."
"Where's your bat?"
The inquiry came from Mr. Benyon. Mr. Hedges had arrived at the wicket without that batsman's requisite. He scratched his head.
"My bat? I--I don't want no bat. I--I ain't no cricketer. You can hit me quite as well without it, Tom."
"Go and get your bat!"
Mr. Hedges went and got it. When he had it it was evident that he had but rudimentary notions of its uses. He held it gingerly, round side foremost, as though he were afraid that if he grasped it tightly it would burn him.
"Bill Hedges, do you remember those drinks you paid for me the Saturday week before I died?"