“All right, Freedham.  That’s all right.”

Though some years his junior, I said it much as a mother would soothe a frightened child to sleep.

“Thanks awfully,” said Freedham gratefully.

“Oh, by the by, there’s old Dr. Chapman over there.  Should I fetch him?”

“No, damn you!” cried my patient with extraordinary conviction.  “Can’t you mind your own infernal business and leave me to mind mine?”

This was so rude that I felt quite justified in leaving him to mind his own infernal business, whatever it might be.  I strolled away.

Now, with this interesting performance of Freedham’s, my desire to describe this cricket match ends.  There was a hot finish, but, in spite of some fortunate overs from myself, the Suckers won.  The last wicket down, Chappy got out of his deck-chair with a sudden quickness which suggested that such was the only method of successfully getting his fat self upon his feet; and, when he had shaken down his white waistcoat and said:  “Bye-bye, Radley.  Reg’lar meals, no smoke, and you may grow into a fine lad yet,” carried himself off with the awkward leg-work of a heavy-bodied man, cheerily acknowledging the greetings of the little Sucker boys, and prodding the fattest of them in the ribs.  Radley strolled away, followed by the wondering looks of boys who were told that this big man was S.T.  Radley, of Middlesex.  Freedham, quite recovered, returned to his day-boy roof among the endless roofs of Kensingtowe Town.  And I plied homeward to Bramhall House, depressed by the prospect of Preparation for the rest of the evening, and by the restored consciousness of Fillet’s hostility, which, forgotten during the cricket match, now came back upon me like a sense of foreboding.

CHAPTER III

AWFUL ROUT OF RAY

Sec.1

The following afternoon I was looking rather glumly out of a window at the broad playing fields which, in the greyness of a rainy day, seemed as deserted as myself.  From my place I could see nearly all the red-brick wall that surrounds Kensingtowe grounds; I could see the iron railings which, at long intervals, break the monotony of the wall.  Now the railings of Kensingtowe, like all places with sad memories, have an honourable place in my heart.

Naturally it was a rule, strictly enforced, that boys must make their exit from the fields by going through the Bramhall gate rather than over the railings.  Naturally, too, this rule was sometimes disregarded, for the architect, whom I deem a desirable soul, had made the passage over the railings invitingly possible by means of some well-placed cross-pieces, which he sketched into his designs, saying (I imagine):  “We shall have the lads climbing over at this point—­well, God bless ’em—­I hope they’re not caught and whopped for it.”  Right at the farthest corner of the field was the Bramhall gate, which—­But the Bramhall gate needn’t interest us:  we leave by the railings.