“Great fing to go in fus, sar,” explained John; “we go in fus now, when we’s fresh.”
Then the Model Man led out his warriors.
I sauntered across the pitch with the Treasure, and examined its peculiarities. We were discussing a curious geological formation, midway between the wickets, when our Fourth Officer approached in some glee at a great discovery. He had found a little hill, rather wide of the stumps, on one side, and he explained that whenever he dropped a ball on this elevation, he must bowl an Ethiop.
“You see, my natural leg-break will take the ball dead into the wicket every time,” he said.
We hoped it might be so; and he begged us to keep the thing a profound secret, because, as he said, if it got about that we were going to utilise this hill to such an extent, the enemy would probably send out and have it removed, or alter the pitch.
“driven back a trifle.”
After the goats cleared away, and the juvenile spectators driven back a trifle, our Model Man arranged his field. More correctly speaking, the field arranged itself. Indeed, our team hardly proved as amenable as might have been wished. The Doctor insisted on taking long-leg and long-oft.
“Why?” asked his Captain, looking rather distrustfully at a buggy with some red parasols in it, which would be extremely close to the Doctor at long-leg.
“It isn’t that, old chap,” replied our physician, cheerfully, following the Model Man’s eye. “In fact, I’m not sure if I even know those girls. I only suggested a place in the long field because I’m a safe catch. That’s important.”