“Silly ass, Osborne,” roared Cover-point, quite gratuitously, for no one had addressed him for the last twenty minutes.

The batsman ran wildly out to the next ball and missed it.  The wicket-keeper successfully stumped him.  It was a clear case of “out,” and a shout went up:  “How’s that?”

“That,” said Penny, who had been in a dream and seen nothing, “is Not Out.”

I was disheartened to learn on this occasion that little boys could be so rude to those who were sacrificing their spare time to teach them cricket.

“Really,” sighed Penny, adjusting his tie, “unless you treat me with due respect, I will not come and coach you again.”

This was greeted with an unmannerly cheer.

“Resume your play,” commanded Pennybet.  “It was Not Out.”

“Why?” loudly demanded the bowler.

Penny seized the only escape from his sensational error.

“Because, you horrid little tuberculous maggot, it was a no-ball.  Besides, you smell.”

The little boy looked defiantly at him, and, pointing to me, said: 

“Bowler’s umpire didn’t give ‘no-ball.’”

“Then,” said Penny promptly, “he ought to have done.”

I was so shocked at this unscrupulous method of sacrificing me to save his reputation that I shouted indignantly:  “You’re a liar!”

Later a warm discussion arose between the batsman and the bowler as to whether the former could be out, if “centre” had not been given to him properly.  I took no part in it, but looked significantly at Pennybet.  He gazed reproachfully at me, as much as to say:  “How could you suggest such a thing?” I walked over to him, ostensibly to ask his advice.  The quarrel continued, most of the fieldsmen asserting that the batsman was out:  they wanted an innings.  Unperceived, we strolled leisurely away and disappeared round a corner.  The last thing that I heard was the batsman’s voice shouting:  “I’m not an ass.  I haven’t got four legs, so sucks for you!”

Sec.2

Reaching the road, we linked arms with the affection born of sharing a crime and the risk of detection.

“Where are we going to?” asked I.

“Ee, bless me, my man.  Down town, of course.”

“But it’s out of bounds.”

“Ee, bless me, my man, don’t you know that to me all rules are but gossamer threads that I break at my will?  I’m off to buy sausages.  I haven’t had anything worth eating since the holidays.”

And so, arm in arm, we marched briskly down the Beaten Track.  The Beaten Track, I must tell you, was a route into the town which Penny, Doe, and I regarded as our private highway.  We would have esteemed it disloyalty to an inanimate friend to approach the town by any other channel.  It led through the residential district of Kensingtowe, past a fashionable church, and down a hill.  Dear old Beaten Track!  How often have I mouched over it, alone and dreamy, adjusting my steps to the cracks between its pavement-flags!  How often have I sauntered along it, arm in arm with one of my friends, talking those great plans which have come to nothing!