The trees and towers of
Silchester, the bald hills of Berkshire on the horizon, the cattle in
the meadows, the birds in the air exasperated Mark with his inability to
put himself in the picture. The grass beneath the oak was scattered with
a treasury of small suns minted by the leaves above, trembling patens
and silver disks that Mark set himself to count.
"Trying not to yearn and trying not to yawn," he muttered. "Forty-four,
forty-five, forty-six."
"You're ten out," said a voice. "We want fifty-six to tie, fifty-seven
to win."
Mark looked up and saw that a Silchester man whom he remembered seeing
once at the Mission was preparing to sit down beside him. He was a tall
youth, fair and freckled and clear cut, perfectly self-possessed, but
lacking any hint of condescension in his manner.
"Didn't you come over with Rowley?" he inquired.
Mark was going to explain that he was working at the Mission when it
struck him that a Silchester man might have the right to resent that,
and he gave no more than a simple affirmative.
"I remember seeing you at the Mission," he went on. "My name's Hathorne.
Oh, well hit, sir, well hit!"
Hathorne's approbation of the batsman made the match appear even more
remote. It was like the comment of a passer-by upon a well-designed
figure in a tapestry.
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