It was a morning in the middle of April, and the Jackson family
were consequently breakfasting in comparative silence. The cricket
season had not begun, and except during the cricket season they
were in the habit of devoting their powerful minds at breakfast
almost exclusively to the task of victualling against the labours
of the day. In May, June, July, and August the silence was broken.
The three grown-up Jacksons played regularly in first-class
cricket, and there was always keen competition among their brothers
and sisters for the copy of the Sportsman which was to be found on
the hall table with the letters. Whoever got it usually gloated
over it in silence till urged wrathfully by the multitude to let
them know what had happened; when it would appear that Joe had
notched his seventh century, or that Reggie had been run out when
he was just getting set, or, as sometimes occurred, that that ass
Frank had dropped Fry or Hayward in the slips before he had scored,
with the result that the spared expert had made a couple of hundred
and was still going strong.
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