CRICHTON BROWNE. She took me first of all to a field where a bevy of
maidens were engaged in a game of hockey.
"We are keen on hockey," said my guide, and, as she spoke, a girl,
flushed and radiant, caught me across the most sensitive part of
the shin with a hockey-stick. No need to ask _her_ if she felt well.
I limped away, and, in another part of the field, saw a comely and
robust maiden practising drop-kicks, utterly regardless of the fact
that I was looking on. I received the football in the pit of my
stomach, and the name of CRICHTON BROWNE died on my lips.
My guide smiled as she saw that I had taken in the scene that was
being enacted under my very nose.
"Do you play cricket?" she asked, with something like pity in her
eyes. I did _not_--but I was by this time in such condign fear of this
young Amazon that I was really afraid to admit my total ignorance of
the sport. She made me wicket-keep for her, _without_ pads, for an
entire hour, at the end of which I readily assented to an invitation
for further exploration.
We went through endless passages to an endless gymnasium, and every
now and then I came across an Indian club or a dumb-bell, wielded by
energetic female athletes.
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