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It's just off the London road. There's a signpost 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.
Still, if you're bent on it " After which he had handed over the key. Mike wished he could have taken Psmith into his confidence. Probably he would have volunteered to come, too; Mike would have been glad of a companion. It did not take him long to reach Lower Borlock. The "White Boar" stood at the far end of the village, by the cricket field.
I'll borrow Jellicoe's bicycle." That Saturday, Lower Borlock smote the men of Chidford hip and thigh. Their victory was due to a hurricane innings of seventy-five by a newcomer to the team, M. Jackson. Cricket is the great safety valve. If you like the game, and are in a position to play it at least twice a week, life can never be entirely gray.
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.
The two lived in a state of simmering hostility, punctuated at intervals by crises, which usually resulted in Lower Borlock having to play some unskilled laborer in place of their star batsman, employed doing "overtime."
I don't want anybody to know if a thing once starts getting about it's all over the place in no time." "All right, I won't tell him." "I say, thanks most awfully! I don't know what I should have done, I " "Oh, chuck it!" said Mike. Mike started on his ride to Lower Borlock with mixed feelings.
"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!"
"Yes, sir?" said the boots, appearing in his shirt sleeves. "Why, 'ello! 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 labors 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.
Still, if you're bent on it...." After which he had handed over the key. Mike wished he could have taken Psmith into his confidence. Probably he would have volunteered to come, too; Mike would have been glad of a companion. It did not take him long to reach Lower Borlock. The White Boar stood at the far end of the village, by the cricket field.
I don't want anybody to know if a thing once starts getting about it's all over the place in no time." "All right, I won't tell him." "I say, thanks most awfully! I don't know what I should have done, I " "Oh, chuck it!" said Mike. Mike started on his ride to Lower Borlock with mixed feelings.
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