'Oh, well, if you're going to tell lies--' 'Not at all. Merely a diplomatic evasion. I'm not bound to go and sob out my secrets on Jephson's waistcoat.' Baker gave up the struggle with a sniff. Norris went to Mr Jephson and got leave to spend the week-end at his uncle's. The interview went without a hitch, as Norris had prophesied. 'You will miss the House match, Norris, then?' said Mr Jephson. 'I'm afraid so, sir. But Mr Leicester's are very weak.' 'H'm. Reece, Marriott, and Gethryn are a good beginning.' 'Yes, sir. But they've got nobody else. Their tail starts after those three.' 'Very well. But it seems a pity.' 'Thank you, sir,' said Norris, wisely refraining from discussing the matter. He had got his exeat, which was what he had come for. In all the annals of Pudford and Little Bindlebury cricket there had never been such a match as that year's. The rector of Pudford and his three Oxford experts performed prodigies with the bat, prodigies, that is to say, judged from the standpoint of ordinary Pudford scoring, where double figures were the exception rather than the rule. The rector, an elderly, benevolent-looking gentleman, played with astounding caution and still more remarkable luck for seventeen. Finally, after he had been in an hour and ten minutes, mid-on accepted the eighth easy chance offered to him, and the ecclesiastic had to retire. The three 'Varsity men knocked up a hundred between them, and the complete total was no less than a hundred and thirty-four. Then came the sensation of the day. After three wickets had fallen for ten runs, Norris and the Little Bindlebury curate, an old Cantab, stayed together and knocked off the deficit. Norris's contribution of seventy-eight not out was for many a day the sole topic of conversation over the evening pewter at the 'Little Bindlebury Arms'. A non-enthusiast, who tried on one occasion to introduce the topic of Farmer Giles's grey pig, found himself the most unpopular man in the village. On the Monday morning Norris returned to Jephson's, with pride in his heart and a sovereign in his pocket, the latter the gift of his excellent uncle. He had had, he freely admitted to himself, a good time. His uncle had done him well, exceedingly well, and he looked forward to going to the show-place again in the near future. In the meantime he felt a languid desire to know how the House match was going on. They must almost have finished the first innings, he thought--unless Jephson's had run up a very big score, and kept their opponents in the field all the afternoon. 'Hullo, Baker,' he said, tramping breezily into the study, 'I've had the time of a lifetime. Great, simply! No other word for it. How's the match getting on?' Baker looked up from the book he was reading. 'What match?' he enquired coldly. 'House match, of course, you lunatic. What match did you think I meant? How's it going on?' 'It's not going on,' said Baker, 'it's stopped.'