There was
another idea which Raffles kept to himself until he had got me
down there. Then one day he produced a cricket-ball in a meadow
we were crossing, and threw me catches for an hour together.
More hours he spent in bowling to me on the nearest green; and,
if I was never a cricketer, at least I came nearer to being one,
by the end of that week, than ever before or since.
Incident began early on the Monday. We had sallied forth from a
desolate little junction within quite a few miles of Milchester,
had been caught in a shower, had run for shelter to a wayside
inn. A florid, overdressed man was drinking in the parlor, and I
could have sworn it was at the sight of him that Raffles recoiled
on the threshold, and afterwards insisted on returning to the
station through the rain. He assured me, however, that the odor
of stale ale had almost knocked him down. And I had to make what
I could of his speculative, downcast eyes and knitted brows.
Milchester Abbey is a gray, quadrangular pile, deep-set in rich
woody country, and twinkling with triple rows of quaint windows,
every one of which seemed alight as we drove up just in time to
dress for dinner. The carriage had whirled us under I know not
how many triumphal arches in process of construction, and past
the tents and flag-poles of a juicy-looking cricket-field, on
which Raffles undertook to bowl up to his reputation.
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