of Rankin. Not that Rankin resembles Mr. WARNER even remotely in any other
way. But Rankin has a mannerism, one which is fairly harmless, too, as a
general rule. If on one occasion, of which I will tell you, it had
unfortunate results, there was then a combination of circumstances for
which Rankin was not entirely responsible. That much I now feel myself able
to admit. At the time I could see nothing good about Rankin at all.

Rankin resides in our village of Littleborough, and is by trade what is
known as a jobbing gardener. On Thursdays he is my gardener, on Wednesdays
Mrs. Dobbie's gardener, and so on. On Saturday afternoons he plays cricket.
Or at least he dresses in (among other garments) a pair of tight white
flannel trousers and a waistcoat, and joins the weekly game.

Recently we met in deadly combat the neighbouring village of Smallwick.
Away into the unchronicled past runs the record of these annual contests.
Each village hints that it has gained the greater number of victories; each
is inclined in its heart to believe that the other one has actually done
so--because, as I suppose, the agony of defeat leaves a more lasting
impression than the joy of victory. But I digress. We have not even got to
Rankin's mannerism yet.

Rankin's mannerism is the habit of plunging his hands into his trouser
pockets. A very ordinary one, you will say; but not when carried to the
extent to which Rankin carries it. It is useless for Rankin to field at
short slip, for instance. The only time he did so a catch struck him
sharply in the lower chest (and fell to the ground, of course) before he
had time to take his hands out of his pockets. When he is batting he crams
one hand into his pocket between each delivery. As he wears a large batting
glove and his trousers are very tight (as I mentioned before) this is a
matter of some difficulty. In fact we usually attribute the smallness of