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"Yes, sir?" said the boots, appearing in his shirt-sleeves. "Why, 'ullo! Mr. Jackson, sir!" Mike was well known to all dwellers in Lower Borlock, his scores being the chief topic of conversation when the day's labours were over. "I want to see Mr. Barley, Jack." "He's bin in bed this half-hour back, Mr. Jackson." "I must see him. Can you get him down?" The boots looked doubtful.
Mike knew the landlord of the White Boar well; he was the wag of the village team. Every village team, for some mysterious reason, has its comic man. In the Lower Borlock eleven Mr. Barley filled the post. He was a large, stout man, with a red and cheerful face, who looked exactly like the jovial innkeeper of melodrama.
We all start out together, but I could nip back, get on to my bike I've got it down here and meet you anywhere you liked. By Jove, I'm simply dying for a game. I can hardly keep my hands off a bat." "I'll give you all you want. What you'd better do is to ride straight to Lower Borlock that's the name of the place and I'll meet you on the ground. Any one will tell you where Lower Borlock is.
Being kept in on Saturday meant that he would be unable to turn out for Little Borlock against Claythorpe, the return match. In the previous game he had scored ninety-eight, and there was a lob bowler in the Claythorpe ranks whom he was particularly anxious to meet again.
It's just off the London road. There's a sign-post where you turn off. Can you come next Saturday?" "Rather. I suppose you can fix me up with a bat and pads? I don't want to bring mine." "I'll lend you everything. I say, you know, we can't give you a Wrykyn wicket. The Lower Borlock pitch isn't a shirt-front." "I'll play on a rockery, if you want me to," said Mike.
"I," said Psmith, breathing on a coat button, and polishing it with his handkerchief. "Can you play cricket?" "You have discovered," said Psmith, "my secret sorrow." "You're rotting." "You wrong me, Comrade Jackson." "Then why haven't you played?" "Why haven't you?" "Why didn't you come and play for Lower Borlock, I mean?"
"I shall be all right. Where do you want me to go?" "It's a place about a mile or two from here, called Lower Borlock." "Lower Borlock?" "Yes, do you know it?" "Rather! I've been playing cricket for them all the term." "I say, have you? Do you know a man called Barley?" "Barley? Rather he runs the 'White Boar'." "He's the chap I owe the money to." "Old Barley!"
Mike knew the landlord of the "White Boar" well; he was the wag of the village team. Every village team, for some mysterious reason, has its comic man. In the Lower Borlock eleven Mr. Barley filled the post. He was a large, stout man, with a red and cheerful face, who looked exactly like the jovial inn-keeper of melodrama.
"I," said Psmith, breathing on a coat-button, and polishing it with his handkerchief. "Can you play cricket?" "You have discovered," said Psmith, "my secret sorrow." "You're rotting." "You wrong me, Comrade Jackson." "Then why haven't you played?" "Why haven't you?" "Why didn't you come and play for Lower Borlock, I mean?"
As time went on, and his average for Lower Borlock reached the fifties and stayed there, Mike began, though he would not have admitted it, to enjoy himself. It was not Wrykyn, but it was a very decent substitute. The only really considerable element making for discomfort now was Mr. Downing. By bad luck it was in his form that Mike had been placed on arrival; and Mr.
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