"In theory," said he, "the manly what-d'you-call-it of cricket and all
that sort of thing ought to make him fall on your neck tomorrow and weep
over you as a foeman worthy of his steel. But I am prepared to bet a
reasonable sum that he will give no jujitsu exhibition of this kind. In
fact, from what I have seen of our bright little friend, I should say
that, in a small way, he will do his best to make it distinctly hot for
you, here and there."
"I don't care," murmured Mike, shifting his aching limbs in the chair.
"In an ordinary way, I suppose, a man can put up with having his bowling
hit a little. But your performance was cruelty to animals. Twenty-eight
off one over, not to mention three wides, would have made Job foam at
the mouth. You will probably get sacked. On the other hand, it's worth
it. You have lit a candle this day which can never be blown out. You
have shown the lads of the village how Comrade Downing's bowling ought
to be treated. I don't suppose he'll ever take another wicket."
"He doesn't deserve to."
Psmith smoothed his hair at the glass and turned round again.
"The only blot on this day of mirth and goodwill is," he said, "the
singular conduct of our friend Jellicoe.
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