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I really am afraid that my ankle is sprained. I don't think I can step on it. See if you can help me to stand, boys, and I'll try it." "Oh, grandma!" groaned Cricket, in horror. "Have I sprained your ankle?" "It probably isn't bad, dear," said grandma, quickly. "At any rate, you didn't mean to Hush, Archie!" as that young man gave Cricket a reproachful "Now you have done it!"
So he scrambled up into the daylight, to be greeted with a shout and a pounce, both at the same time. And Chirpy Cricket saw, too late, that it was a creature much bigger than a hen that had captured him. It was Johnnie Green! Of course Johnnie himself had not entered Chirpy's underground home.
But I did land one ball into the shrubbery, which was the only moment during the match when I felt that cricket in a cold wind was worth playing.
Late in the afternoon, however, a most unusual thing took place. Chirpy Cricket noticed a sound as of some one digging. It grew louder and louder as he listened. And it was not in the least like the scratching of a hen, looking for grubs and worms. This noise was deep down in the ground and like nothing Chirpy had ever heard.
The walk of the dining-room were covered with photographs of the house cricket and football teams for the last fifteen years. Looking at them, he felt more than ever how entirely his school life had been bound up in his house.
It consists, on the ground floor, as it were, of a white Etablissement des Bains surrounded by a little park, which is fringed on the further side by an open-air concert platform and a theatre, of a few rows of shops, and a couple of cafes. You could play catch with a cricket ball across it.
Ginger, who was lighting a cigarette without a care in the world, proceeded to develop his theme. "It's a rummy thing about school. Generally, if a fellow's good at games in the cricket team or the footer team and so forth he can hardly help being fairly popular. But this blighter Foster somehow nobody seemed very keen on him.
In particular, he read aloud to me the magnificent description of the boiling kettle in the first "Chirp" of "The Cricket on the Hearth," and pointed out to me how Dickens fell into rhyme in describing the song of the kettle. This passage Mr. Nichols read to me, standing in front of his fire, in a very musical and sympathetic tone of voice which pleased me exceedingly.
Not to stand beside him as the Cricket did, but to busy and bestir themselves. To do all honour to her image. To pull him by the skirts, and point to it when it appeared. To cluster round it, and embrace it, and strew flowers for it to tread on. To try to crown its fair head with their tiny hands.
He talked politics for a week at election time. I would not say that he ever thought politics. I know that he had no knowledge, and less interest, where the affairs of his country were concerned, when I met and talked with him during that visit. The country's defences were actually of far less importance in his eyes than the country's cricket averages.
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