“You’re right, but what’d they care. They’re a rotten lot. I’d like to pole-axe the Governor. By-the-bye, have you heard anything of White recently? He said he thought his firm was sending him out.”
“No.”
“Did you know him at all? He was a thorough gentleman.”
“No, not much; he didn’t live my way, you know. I met him several times down the county ground.”
“Yes, he was fairly mad over Surrey, wasn’t he? We played many games together, he and I; he bowled an awfully tricky ball, a gentle lob-dob, nearly full pitch. You thought you were going to put it out of the ground for six, and then suddenly you found your wicket down.”
At this point a disreputable beggar interrupted them.
“What d’you make of him—a drunken monk, eh?” said the cricketer. Both the Englishmen put on a look suggesting the principles of Political Economy, and signified by a frown that they did not encourage beggars. The “drunken monk,” however, did not budge for five minutes, he looked up at them and grinned. The people all round grinned also and turned to watch the scene. Then, suddenly, the beggar, after churning his mouth for some time, spat on the Harris overcoat of the cricketer’s companion and exclaimed:
“German pigs.”
“Beast,” said the Englishman, looking at his coat.
“They ought to be coming out soon. It’s only a short procession, they say—out of the church round the wall and back again; then the bells will begin. It’s after midnight now.”