"Last year's
Harrow Eleven."
"I remember him. Worst man in the team."
"Keen cricketer, however. Stopped till he was twenty to get his
colors. Governor made him. Keen breed. Oh, pretty, sir! Very
pretty!"
The game was boring me. I only came to see old Raffles perform.
Soon I was looking wistfully for his return, and at length I saw
him beckoning me from the palings to the right.
"Want to introduce you to old Amersteth," he whispered, when I
joined him. "They've a cricket week next month, when this boy
Crowley comes of age, and we've both got to go down and play."
"Both!" I echoed. "But I'm no cricketer!"
"Shut up," says Raffles. "Leave that to me. I've been lying for
all I'm worth," he added sepulchrally as we reached the bottom of
the steps. "I trust to you not to give the show away."
There was a gleam in his eye that I knew well enough elsewhere,
but was unprepared for in those healthy, sane surroundings; and
it was with very definite misgivings and surmises that I followed
the Zingari blazer through the vast flower-bed of hats and
bonnets that bloomed beneath the ladies' awning.
Lord Amersteth was a fine-looking man with a short mustache and a
double chin. He received me with much dry courtesy, through
which, however, it was not difficult to read a less flattering
tale.
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