Mr. Raikes was rather shy of them at first.  But his acting rarely failing to deceive himself, he began to feel himself the perfectly happy man he impersonated, and where there were ladies he went, and talked of days when he had creditably handled a bat, and of a renown in the annals of Cricket cut short by mysterious calamity.  The foolish fellow did not know that they care not a straw for cricketing fame.  His gaiety presently forsook him as quickly as it had come.  Instead of remonstrating at Evan’s restlessness, it was he who now dragged Evan from spot to spot.  He spoke low and nervously.

‘We’re watched !’

There was indeed a man lurking near and moving as they moved, with a speculative air.  Writs were out against Raikes.  He slipped from his friend, saying: 

’Never mind me.  That old amphitryon’s birthday hangs on till the meridian; you understand.  His table invites.  He is not unlikely to enjoy my conversation.  What mayn’t that lead to?  Seek me there.’

Evan strolled on, relieved by the voluntary departure of the weariful funny friend he would not shake off, but could not well link with.

A long success is better when seen at a distance of time, and Nick Frim was beginning to suffer from the monotony of his luck.  Fallow field could do nothing with him.  He no longer blocked.  He lashed out at every ball, and far flew every ball that was bowled.  The critics saw, in this return to his old practices, promise of Nick’s approaching extinction.  The ladies were growing hot and weary.  The little boys gasped on the grass, but like cunning circulators of excitement, spread a report to keep it up, that Nick, on going to his wickets the previous day, had sworn an oath that he would not lay down his bat till he had scored a hundred.

So they had still matter to agitate their youthful breasts, and Nick’s gradual building up of tens, and prophecies and speculations as to his chances of completing the hundred, were still vehemently confided to the field, amid a general mopping of faces.

Evan did become aware that a man was following him.  The man had not the look of a dreaded official.  His countenance was sun-burnt and open, and he was dressed in a countryman’s holiday suit.  When Evan met his eyes, they showed perplexity.  Evan felt he was being examined from head to heel, but by one unaccustomed to his part, and without the courage to decide what he ought consequently to do while a doubt remained, though his inspection was verging towards a certainty in his mind.

At last, somewhat annoyed that the man should continue to dog him wherever he moved, he turned on him and asked him what he wanted?

‘Be you a Muster Eav’n Harrington, Esquire?’ the man drawled out in the rustic music of inquiry.

‘That is my name,’ said Evan.

‘Ay,’ returned the man, ‘it’s somebody lookin’ like a lord, and has a small friend wi’ shockin’ old hat, and I see ye come out o’ the Green Drag’n this mornin’—­I don’t reck’n there’s e’er a mistaak, but I likes to make cock sure.  Be you been to Poortigal, sir?’