“All right, old chap; I can’t be quicker than I am; where are the gloves?”
The gloves are brought like lightning, but not like lightning put on. No, the india-rubber gauntlets must needs be drawn with the greatest care and deliberation over his fingers, and even then require a good deal of shifting to render them comfortable. Then he was actually (I believe) going to take them off in order to roll up his shirt sleeves, had not two of us performed that office for him with a rapidity which astonished him.
“Upon my word, this is too bad,” says our captain, flinging down the bat he was holding, and stamping with vexation. “We might as well give the whole thing up!”
“I’m awfully sorry,” drawled Ned, in an injured tone; “but how could I help it? I’m ready now.”
“Ready! I should hope you were. Off you cut now; it only wants five minutes to the time.”
He starts to go, but turns before he has well left us, and says—
“Oh, I say, Jim, lend us your bat, will you? This one is sprung, and one of the—”
“Here you are,” we shout, running to him with a dozen bats at once—“only look sharp.”
“I only want one,” he says. “Let me see this; no, this will do. Thanks, old man,” and off he saunters again.
The other side is lying comfortably on the grass, very well satisfied at the delay which every moment adds to their chance of victory. What centuries Ned appears to be taking in strolling up to the wickets!