"Get any cricket?" asked Mike, turning to the subject next his heart.

"Only village. Very keen, but no great shakes. By the way, how are you
off for cricket now? Have you ever got a spare afternoon?"

Mike's heart leaped.

"Any Wednesday or Saturday. Look here, I'll tell you how it is."

And he told how matters stood with him.

"So, you see," he concluded, "I'm supposed to be hunting for ruins and
things"--Mike's ideas on the subject of archaeology were vague--"but I
could always slip away. We all start out together, but I could nip back,
get onto my bike--I've got it down here--and meet you anywhere you
liked. By Jove, I'm simply dying for a game. I can hardly keep my hands
off a bat."

"I'll give you all you want. What you'd better do is to ride straight to
Lower Borlock--that's the name of the place--and I'll meet you on the
ground. Anyone will tell you where Lower Borlock is. It's just off the
London road. There's a signpost where you turn off. Can you come next
Saturday?"

"Rather. I suppose you can fix me up with a bat and pads? I don't want
to bring mine."

"I'll lend you everything. I say, you know, we can't give you a Wrykyn
wicket. The Lower Borlock pitch isn't a shirt front."