'Rather,' said Pringle, 'I won't forget.'

This was at six twenty-two p.m. By the time six-thirty boomed from the
College clock-tower, Pringle was absorbing a thrilling work of fiction,
and Dido, her death, and everything connected with her, had faded from
his mind like a beautiful dream.




[11]

POETRY AND STUMP-CRICKET


The Old Beckfordians' match came off in due season, and Pringle enjoyed
it thoroughly. Though he only contributed a dozen in the first innings,
he made up for this afterwards in the second, when the School had a
hundred and twenty to get in just two hours. He went in first with
Marriott, and they pulled the thing off and gave the School a ten
wickets victory with eight minutes to spare. Pringle was in rare form.
He made fifty-three, mainly off the bowling of a certain J.R. Smith,
whose fag he had been in the old days. When at School, Smith had always
been singularly aggressive towards Pringle, and the latter found that
much pleasure was to be derived from hitting fours off his bowling.
Subsequently he ate more strawberries and cream than were, strictly
speaking, good for him, and did the honours at the study tea-party with
the grace of a born host. And, as he had hoped, Miss Mabel Lorimer
_did_ ask what that silver-plate was stuck on to that bat for.