A batsman who has been given

"What's happened?" shouted a voice from the interior of the firsteleven room. 　　"Morris is out.""Good gracious! How?" asked Ellerby, emerging from the room with onepad on his leg and the other in his hand. 　　"L.-b.-w. First ball.""My aunt! Who's in next? Not me?""No. Berridge. For goodness sake, Berry, stick a bat in the way, andnot your legs. Watch that de Freece man like a hawk. He breaks likesin all over the shop. Hullo, Morris! Bad luck! Were you out, do youthink?" A batsman who has been given l.-b.-w. is always asked thisquestion on his return to the pavilion, and he answers it in ninecases out of ten in the negative. Morris was the tenth case. Hethought it was all right, he said. 　　"Thought the thing was going to break, but it didn't.""Hear that, Berry? He doesn't always break. You must look out forthat," said Burgess helpfully. Morris sat down and began to take offhis pads. 　　"That chap'll have Berry, if he doesn't look out," he said. 　　But Berridge survived the ordeal. He turned his first ball to leg fora single. 　　This brought Marsh to the batting end; and the second tragedyoccurred. 　　It was evident from the way he shaped that Marsh was short ofpractice. His visit to the Infirmary had taken the edge off hisbatting. He scratched awkwardly at three balls without hitting them. 　　The last of the over had him in two minds. He started to play forward,changed his stroke suddenly and tried to step back, and the nextmoment the bails had shot up like the _débris_ of a smallexplosion, and the wicket-keeper was clapping his gloved hands gentlyand slowly in the introspective, dreamy way wicket-keepers have onthese occasions. 　　A silence that could be felt brooded over the pavilion. 　　The voice of the scorer, addressing from his little wooden hut themelancholy youth who was working the telegraph-board, broke it. 　　"One for two. Last man duck."Ellerby echoed the remark. He got up, and took off his blazer.