You might have seen us there, side by side, during
the greater part of the Gentlemen's first innings against the
Players (who had lost the toss) on the second Monday in July. We
were to be seen, but not heard, for Raffles had failed to score,
and was uncommonly cross for a player who cared so little for the
game. Merely taciturn with me, he was positively rude to more
than one member who wanted to know how it had happened, or who
ventured to commiserate him on his luck; there he sat, with a
straw hat tilted over his nose and a cigarette stuck between lips
that curled disagreeably at every advance. I was therefore much
surprised when a young fellow of the exquisite type came and
squeezed himself in between us, and met with a perfectly civil
reception despite the liberty. I did not know the boy by sight,
nor did Raffles introduce us; but their conversation proclaimed
at once a slightness of acquaintanceship and a license on the
lad's part which combined to puzzle me. Mystification reached
its height when Raffles was informed that the other's father was
anxious to meet him, and he instantly consented to gratify that
whim.
"He's in the Ladies' Enclosure. Will you come round now?"
"With pleasure," says Raffles. "Keep a place for me, Bunny."
And they were gone.
"Young Crowley," said some voice further back.
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