The day was warm, but
freshened by an almost imperceptible breeze. The air was full of the
scent of the cut grass which lay in little heaps behind the nets. This
is the real cricket scent, which calls to one like the very voice of
the game.
Mike, as he sat there watching, could stand it no longer.
He went up to Adair.
"May I have an innings at this net?" he asked. He was embarrassed and
nervous, and was trying not to show it. The natural result was that his
manner was offensively abrupt.
Adair was taking off his pads after his innings. He looked up. "This
net," it may be observed, was the first eleven net.
"What?" he said.
Mike repeated his request. More abruptly this time, from increased
embarrassment.
"This is the first eleven net," said Adair coldly. "Go in after Lodge
over there."
"Over there" was the end net, where frenzied novices were bowling on a
corrugated pitch to a red-haired youth with enormous feet, who looked as
if he were taking his first lesson at the game.
Mike walked away without a word.
* * * * *
The Archaeological Society expeditions, even though they carried with
them the privilege of listening to Psmith's views of life, proved but a
poor substitute for cricket.
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