But he was gone. I brushed my own hair very carefully, lit a cigarette, and went outside to the others. I always think that a nought itself is nothing--the way one carries it off is everything. A disaster, not only to himself but also to his side, should not make a man indifferent to his personal appearance. "Bad luck," said somebody. "Did it come back?" "Very quickly. We both did." "He wasn't breaking much when I was in," said some tactless idiot. "Then why did you get out?" I retorted. "L.b.w." I moved quickly away from him, and sat next to a man who had yet to go in. "Bad luck," he said. "Second ball, wasn't it? I expect I shall do the same." I thought for a moment. "What makes you think you will have a second?" I asked. "To judge from the easy way in which those two are knocking the bowling about, I sha'n't even have a first," he smiled. I moved on again. "Hallo," said a voice. "I saw you get out. How many did you make?" "None," I said wearily. "How many?" I went and sat down next to him. "Guess," I said. "Oh, I can't." "Well, think of a number." "Yes." "Double it. Divide by two. Take away the number you first thought of. What does that make?" "A hundred." "You must have done it wrong," I said suspiciously. "No, I am sure I didn't.... No, it still comes to a hundred." "Well, then, I must have made a hundred," I said excitedly. "Are you _sure_ you haven't made a mistake?" "Quite." "Then I'd better go and tell the scorer. He put me down a blob--silly ass." "He's a bad scorer, I know." "By the way," I said, as I got up, "what number did you think of?" "Well, it's like this. When you asked me to guess what you had made I instinctively thought of blob, only I didn't like to say so. Then when you began that number game I started with a hundred--it's such an easy number. Double--two hundred. Divided by two--one hundred. Take away the number you first thought of--that's blob, and you have a hundred left. Wasn't that right?" "You idiot," I said angrily. "Of course it wasn't." "Well, don't get sick about it. We all make mistakes." "Sick, I'm not sick. Only just for the moment.... I really thought.... Well, I shall never be so near a century again." At lunch I sat next to one of their side. "How many did you make?" he asked. "Not very many," I said. "How many?" "Oh, hardly any. None at all, practically." "How many actually?" "_And_ actually," I said. ("Fool.") After lunch a strange man happened to be talking to me. "And why did _you_ get out?" he asked. It was a silly question and deserved a silly answer. Besides, I was sick of it all by this time. "Point's moustache put me off," I said. "What was wrong with Point's moustache?" "It swerved the wrong way." "I was fielding point," he said. "I'm very sorry. But if you had recognised me, you wouldn't have asked why I got out, and if I had recognised you I shouldn't have told you. So let's forgive and forget."