. .
The perfect feel of a "fourer "! . . .
The jubilant cry from the flowering thorn to the flowerless willow,
"smite, smite, smite."
(Flowerless willow no more but every run a late-shed perfect bloom.)
The fierce chant of my demon brother issuing forth against the demon
bowler, "hit him, hit him, hit him."
The thousand melodious cracks, delicious cracks, the responsive
echoes of my comrades and the hundred thence-resulting runs,
passionately yearned for, never, never again to be forgotten.
Overhead meanwhile the splendid silent sun, blending all, fusing all,
bathing all in floods of soft ecstatic perspiration.
_Otway lifted his stare from the rough table_.
They have skinned the turf off Trinity cricket-ground . . .
Such turf, too! I wonder who bought it, and what he paid for it.
. . . They have turned the field into a big Base Hospital--all tin
sheds, like a great kraal of scientific Kaffirs. Which reminds
me . . .
Foe read medicine. Caius, you must know, is a great college for
training doctors, and in the way of scholarships and prizes he
annexed most of the mugs on the board.
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