And all the way back to their posts, Saunders pointed out to his colleague that that was what came of not playing the game, and hoped he’d profit by it. “You see, my dear fellow,” he said earnestly, “everything went wrong just because you didn’t follow our arrangement. If you’d stayed and minded the curate, as I think you _said_ you would, I should have got the ball away nicely, and you wouldn’t have been there to hamper me when I arrived. Yes, I know it _looked_ as if it was coming straight to you, and as if it was in your half of the ground and not mine, but it doesn’t do to be led away by these things. I admit I was a second late, because I ran over that idiot Knewstubb, who was watching you instead of attending to me. And, by the way, it really isn’t safe on a ground like this to stop a long shot with your stick. All very well on South-Country cricket-pitches, but no use on rough stuff like ours up here. Very pretty and swanky, of course, if it comes off, and goes down A 1 with the crowd, but it’s too big a risk to be really sporting. Use your feet, man--use your feet!--and do give me a free hand. A really first-class player has no chance, my dear fellow, if he isn’t allowed to have his head.” Wiggie didn’t answer because Saunders had flattened all the breath out of him, and the next minute Harriet came up and pitched into both of them. He felt a hearty, uprising hatred of several people, but especially of the curate, twinkling cheerfully where he now stood decorously with his front line. The little imp grew shameless after that, and Wiggie had his hands full with him. He had all the engaging tricks of the trade--turning on the ball, putting his foot on it, pushing with his shoulder or his little black head, and using more or less any part of his stick that came first; perpetrating each offence with the same maddening, childlike gaiety and delight. The gentle Wiggie could gladly have strangled him. They fought away in a far corner--Stubbs turning a blind eye, and Saunders behind, shouting a lordly--“Here, sir, here!”--the little, scratching, jabbing, twisting, poking game that kills quicker than the wildest spurt, until the singer was sick and stupid, with a swimming brain and a clamour in his ears. Bits of the “Elijah” joined forces with Saunders and added their quota to the muddle in his poor head. “What have I to do with thee, O man of God?” “Here, sir, here!” “They have laid a net for my feet.” (The curate had his wicked little stick hooked firmly round Wiggie’s leg.) “Yet doth the Lord see it not.” “Behind you, sir! Back to your left.... LEFT, I said, you ass!” “Mark how the scorner derideth.... It is enough.... See mine affliction!” “Shoot! Shoot!” “There is no breath left in me.” By the end of the first half he was trembling, gasping and half-blind, and he had had no five minutes. Harriet came up and looked at him anxiously.