"An' if they can stand Berrill's fast 'uns they bees good 'uns," chuckled they of Camslove, as they settled down to watch the Borcombe innings.
Tommy was hanging about the little tin-roofed pavilion, divided between a natural patriotism and a desire to see his hero perform wonders, for Squire Morris's son had consented to represent Borcombe.
Young Morris had never played for his village before, but his reputation as a cricketer was considerable, and the country-side awaited his display with some curiosity.
Nor were they disappointed, for in every way he played admirable cricket, and even Berrill's fast ones merely appeared to offer him opportunities of making boundary hits. His fellow cricketers spent more or less brief periods in his company, and disconsolately sought the shade of the pavilion and the trees, but Morris flogged away so mercilessly that the Camslove score was easily surpassed, with three wickets yet to fall, and in the end Borcombe obtained a very solid victory.
Young Morris was not held in high esteem in the country-side, and there were many who cordially disliked him—it was even whispered that one or two had sworn, deeply, a condign revenge for certain deeds of his—but he had played the innings of a master, and, as such, he received great applause on his return to the pavilion.
Tommy was in the highest spirits, and, full of a reflected glory, strode manfully, on his hero's arm, down the village street.
In the bar-room of the Flaming Lion many healths were drunk to the victors, to the defeated, to Berrill's fast 'uns, to the young squire's long success, to Tommy Wideawake.
Tommy, flushed and exultant, stood among the little group, with glowing cheeks.
Presently a grimy hand pulled his sleeve. It was the pot-boy.
"Don't 'ee 'ave no more, sir—not now," he whispered. But Tommy looked at him hotly.