"You remember the Pinchington ground?" said Evan abruptly, as though he had not been listening.
"I do that!" cried Jan, and Evan looked round at him. As small boys they had played at least one match together on the ground in question; and Jan still wondered what he would not have given to be in flannels then like Master Evan, instead of in his Sunday shirt and trousers; but Evan was thinking that the school bowler had spoken exactly like the stable lad.
"I got up a match there," he continued, "at the end of last holidays, and I'm going to get up two or three this August. It's an awful hustle! We play the Pinchington Juniors—awful chaps—but so are some of mine. My best bowler's learning to drive a hearse. We've a new under-gardener who can hit like smoke. I'd have got a lot myself if it had been a decent wicket, but I mean to have one next holidays."
"Does old Crutchy still bowl?" asked Jan, grinning allusively.
"Rather! Hobbles up to the wicket, clumps down his crutch and slings 'em in like a demon. He would be jam on a decent pitch! I was going to say, I got 48 one day last summer holidays. It wasn't against the Juniors—it was a boys' match at Woodyatt Hall—but I did give 'em stick!"
"Well done!" said Jan, quite impressed. "I never made anything like that in my life. You're playing for your house, aren't you?"
"Rather! I should hope so. I got 19 not out the other day against the United—including two fours to leg off Whitfield major."
And so forth with copious details. Whitfield major was the hard hitter of the Eleven, and as bad a fast bowler as ever took an occasional wicket. Jan, who always
