“I dare say not,” said Heathcote. “But I wish to goodness some one would say what it all means. I can’t make it out.”
After breakfast he repaired to his lord’s study, and cleared the table.
“Well,” said Pledge. “What about cricket?”
“Thanks, awfully,” said the fag, “I’d like it.”
“All serene. Come here as soon as school is up.” Which Heathcote did, and was girt hand and foot with pads, and led by his senior down into the fields, where for an hour he stood gallantly at the wickets, swiping heroically at every ball, and re-erecting his stumps about once an over, as often as they were overturned by the desolating fire of the crack bowler of Templeton.
A few stragglers came up and watched the practice; but Heathcote had the natural modesty to know that their curiosity did not extend to his batting, gallant as it was. Indeed, they almost ignored the existence of a bat anywhere, and even failed to be amused by the gradual demoralisation of the fag who wielded it, under the sense of the eyes that were upon him.
“Pledge is on his form this term,” said Cresswell, one of the onlookers, to his friend Cartwright.
“Tremendously,” said Cartwright. “Grandcourt won’t stand up to it, if it’s like that on match day. Who’s the kid at the wicket?”
“His new fag—poor little beggar!”
“It’s a pity. Poor Forbes was just like him a couple of years ago.”