Loman, who since the last Dominican had not been on speaking terms with Pembury, did not vouchsafe a reply, “I do!” said Stephen, boldly.
“Do you, really?” replied Pembury, looking round at the boy. “Perhaps you back yourself to talk when you’re not spoken to, eh, Mr Greenhorn?”
“Bravo! bravo! Well run, sir! Bravo, Fifth!” was the cry as Oliver, following up the first ball of the over, pilfered a bye from the long-stop.
“Didn’t I tell you!” exclaimed Pembury, delighted; “he’ll save us; he’s got down to that end on purpose to take the bowling. Do you twig, Loamy? And he’ll stick to that end till the last ball of the over, and then he’ll run an odd number, and get up to the other end. Do you comprehend?”
“You seem to know all about it,” growled Loman, who saw the force of Pembury’s observations, but greatly disliked it all the same.
“Do I, really?” replied the lame boy; “how odd that is, now—particularly without a crib!”
Loman was fast losing patience—a fact which seemed to have anything but a damping effect on the editor of the Dominican. But another hit or two by Oliver created a momentary diversion. It was quite clear that Pembury’s version of Oliver’s tactics was a correct one. He could easily have run three, but preferred to sacrifice a run rather than leave the incompetent and flurried Webster to face the bowling.
“Six to win!” cried Stephen; “I’m certain Oliver will do it!”
“Yes, Oliver was always a plodding old blockhead!” drily observed Pembury, who seemed to enjoy the small boy’s indignation whenever any one spoke disrespectfully of his big brother.
“He’s not a blockhead!” retorted Stephen, fiercely.