To Fisher minor it was amazing how Mr Stratton could talk and laugh as pleasantly as he did with the umpire for the other side. He felt sure he could not have done it himself.
Suddenly it occurred to Fisher minor, by what connection of ideas he could not tell, what an awful thing it would be if Rollitt were to forget about the match. The horror of the idea, which had all the weight of a presentiment, sent the colour from his cheeks, and without a word to anybody he slid down the tree and began to run with all his might towards the school.
“What’s the row—collywobbles!” asked D’Arcy.
But no one was in a position to answer. A fusillade of acorns from the tree, and derisive compliments of “Well run!” “Bravo, Short-legs!” from the pavilion steps, greeted the runner as he passed that warm corner. He didn’t care. Even the captain and his own brother, whom he met going down to the field of battle, did not divert him. He rushed panting up the stairs and into Rollitt’s study.
Rollitt was sitting at the table taking observations of a crumb of bread through a microscope.
“Rollitt,” gasped the boy, “the match! It’s just beginning, and you promised to play. Do come, or we shall be licked!”
Rollitt took a further look at the crumb and then got up.
“I forgot,” said he; “come on, Fisher minor.”
“Aren’t you going to put on flannels?” asked the boy.
“Why!” said Rollitt roughly, stalking out.