“That’s old Freedham’s boy over there, isn’t it?” he asked.  “Shocking specimen.”

“Yes, he’s a day-boy.  You know his father, the doctor?”

“Doctor be damned!” answered Chappy.  “He’s no more a doctor than a Quaker’s a Christian.  Old Freedham’s surgery is a bally schism-shop.  He’s one of those homoeopathic Johnnies, and would be blackballed on societies of which I’m a vice-president.  You know—­just as I can never go into dissenting chapels without feeling certain of the presence of evil spirits—­my wife says it’s the stuffiness of the atmosphere, but I say:  ’No, my dear, it’s evil spirits; I know what’s evil spirits and what’s bad air’—­well, just so I could never go into old Freedham’s—­but I’m not likely to be asked.  Doctor—­bah!”

And Chappy flung away the moist and masticated end of his cigar and all such nonsensical ideas with it.  Then he took a new cigar from his case, proceeding: 

“And the man’s not only a nonconformist in the Medicine Creed, but he’s actually a deacon in a Presbyterian chapel—­or something equally heathen—­and a fluent one at that, I expect.  I make a point of never trusting those people.  Look at his sickening son and heir yonder.  Did you ever see an orthodox doctor produce a cockchafer like that?  That’s homoeopathy, that is—­”

And Chappy flourished his new cigar towards Freedham.

Doe, too, had seen Freedham’s entry, and some sign of recognition passed between them.  The next ball came swiftly and threateningly down upon the leg side, and Doe, perhaps with the nervousness consequent upon the arrival of a new critic before whom he would fain do well, stepped back.  A shout went up as it was seen that the ball had taken the leg bail.  Doe looked flurried at this sudden dismissal and a bit upset.  He involuntarily shot a glance at Freedham and after some hesitation left the crease.  He rather dragged his bat and drooped his head as he walked to the pavilion, till, realising that this might be construed into an ungracious acceptance of defeat, he brought his head erect and swung his bat with a careless freedom.

“Heavens!” murmured Radley.  “Isn’t he self-conscious?”

Chappy didn’t hear.  He was taken up in applauding the stylish innings of the retiring batsman, and swearing he would stand the boy a liquor.

“Bravo, Doe!” he shouted.  “Don’t think you can play cricket, ’cos you can’t.  So there!”

Doe entered blushing and stood nervously by an empty chair near Radley, who read his meaning and said:  “Sit there, if you like.”

My friend put the chair very close to his hero and, having sat in it, began to remove his pads.  I think Radley was pleased with this action and liked having the worshipping youth beside him.  The fall of Doe’s wicket had brought my innings nearer and started a fresh attack of stage-fright.  In my agitation movement seemed imperative.  So I came and reclined on the ground by Edgar, intruding myself on his notice by asking: