"Well, trot down and change, and then we'll go to the field and I'll run over your points at a net. We will see if you are as good a cricketer as you are a scholar. Stay and have some cake first. Perhaps you will excuse me if I smoke a pipe. Masters have their vices, you see. I haven't smoked for nearly three hours." So the pair sat, Pip with a large piece of cake balanced delicately on his knee, morbidly anxious not to spill crumbs on the floor; and Hanbury lolling back in his armchair, smoking his pipe and surveying this sturdy youth before him, who knew every cricketer's average and had never heard of Cinderella. As Pip was changing into flannels a few minutes later he encountered Mumford. "Come to the grub-shop," said that hero. "Can't," said Pip shortly. "Seen the comb anywhere?" "Comb? What for?" said Mumford, who considered parting the hair during term-time an affectation. "My hair, of course, silly swine," replied Pip, without heat. "You must be cracked! Come to the grub-shop," reiterated his friend. "Can't. Promised to go to a net with Ham." And Pip, having worked up the conversation to this artistic climax, departed, leaving Mumford, who was not an athlete, in a state of incoherent amazement. Mr. Hanbury presently arrived at the net, with two more small boys picked up on the way. Each was given an innings, with a little helpful coaching, Pip coming last. He stood up to the bowling manfully, and occasionally slogged one of his weaker brethren; but his bat was anything but straight, and Ham bowled him at will. "M' yes," said Mr. Hanbury, "you are only an average lot of batsmen. Can any of you bowl?" There was a respectful chorus of "No, sir," as custom demanded. "Well, try. I am going to have a knock." Pip and company bowled a few laborious overs, and speedily proved that their estimate of their own powers was based upon truth, their preceptor treating their deliveries with little ceremony. Finally they were ranged in a semicircle, and Ham gave them fielding practice. Here Pip felt more at home. He was quick on his feet and possessed a "nippy" pair of hands. His ground fielding was especially good. "Hallo!" cried Mr. Hanbury, as Pip got to a ball which kept low down on his left, and returned it particularly smartly; "which hand did you throw in that ball with, young man?" Pip surveyed two grubby paws doubtfully. "I think it was my left, sir," he said apologetically. "I can't help it sometimes." "Ambidextrous, eh? Catch this. Now, throw it in again--left hand." Pip did so, wondering. "Do you ever bowl left-handed?" was the next inquiry. "No, sir." "Well, just come to a net for a few minutes. You other people can cut off to tea now." The tea-bell had just rung, and the field was emptying rapidly. "Now, my son," said the master, "you are going to bowl to me with your left hand. Plug them in." Pip did so. His first ball was a fast half-volley, and was promptly treated as it deserved.