“You shall have it your own way,” snarled he; “I’ll come to the field.”
Chapter Twenty.
The Little Sweep.
Ainger’s victory over the rebels had a great moral effect on the house. There was no further question as to the hardship of compulsory cricket; indeed, everyone became so keen on the prospect of turning out a “crack” eleven, that if the rule had required the attendance of every boy daily instead of thrice a week the fellows would have turned up.
The prospects brightened rapidly after a week or two’s practice. Railsford put his shoulder to the wheel with his usual energy. He would bowl or bat or field with equal cheerfulness, if thereby he might smarten up the form of any player, however indifferent, who really wanted to improve. He specially devoted himself to the candidates for a place in the second eleven; and it presently began to be rumoured that Railsford’s would be able to put two elevens in the field, able to hold their own against any other two in Grandcourt. It was rather a big boast, but after the exploits of the house at the sports nobody could afford to make too little of its ambitious projects.
Arthur, Dig, and their coterie—most of them safely housed already in the second eleven—caught a regular cricket fever. They lived in an atmosphere of cricket. They thought in cricket, and dreamed of nothing else. Any question which arose resolved itself into a cricket match in their minds, and was mentally played out to bring it to a decision. Their ordinary talk betrayed their mania, and even their work was solaced by the importation of cricket into its deepest problems.
Here, for instance, is an illustration of the kind of talk which might been have overheard one evening during the first part of the term in the study over Railsford’s head.
Arthur was groaning over his Euclid.