“Yes, the Knights,” answered Tom.
“Well, I'm sure you would have enjoyed the wonderful humour of it twice as much if you had taken more pains with your scholarship.”
“Well, sir, I don't believe any boy in the form enjoyed the sets-to between Cleon and the Sausage-seller more than I did—eh, Arthur?” said Tom, giving him a stir with his foot.
“Yes, I must say he did,” said Arthur. “I think, sir, you've hit upon the wrong book there.”
“Not a bit of it,” said the master. “Why, in those very passages of arms, how can you thoroughly appreciate them unless you are master of the weapons? and the weapons are the language, which you, Brown, have never half worked at; and so, as I say, you must have lost all the delicate shades of meaning which make the best part of the fun.”
“Oh, well played! bravo, Johnson!” shouted Arthur, dropping his bat and clapping furiously, and Tom joined in with a “Bravo, Johnson!” which might have been heard at the chapel.
“Eh! what was it? I didn't see,” inquired the master. “They only got one run, I thought?”
“No, but such a ball, three-quarters length, and coming straight for his leg bail. Nothing but that turn of the wrist could have saved him, and he drew it away to leg for a safe one.—Bravo, Johnson!”
“How well they are bowling, though,” said Arthur; “they don't mean to be beat, I can see.”
“There now,” struck in the master; “you see that's just what I have been preaching this half-hour. The delicate play is the true thing. I don't understand cricket, so I don't enjoy those fine draws which you tell me are the best play, though when you or Raggles hit a ball hard away for six I am as delighted as any one. Don't you see the analogy?”