The innings soon closed, and we had sixty-one to win, and, what seemed more likely, fifty-nine and various other numbers to lose. Sixty-one is a very unlucky number with me--oddly enough I have never yet made sixty-one; like W.G. Grace, who had never made ninety-three. My average this season is five, which is a respectable number. As Bolton pointed out--if we each got five to-day, and there were six extras, we should win. I suppose if one plays chess a good deal one thinks of these things. Harold, I mean George, refused to field, so I nobly put myself in last and substituted for him. This was owing to an argument as to the exact wording of my bet with Gerald. "You said you'd get him out," said Gerald. "I mean 'out of the way,' 'out of the field,' 'out of----'" "I meant 'out' according to the laws of cricket. There are nine ways. Which was yours, I should like to know?" "Obstructing the ball." "There you are." I shifted my ground. "I didn't say I'd get him out," I explained. "I said I'd get him. Those were my very words. 'I will get George.' Can you deny that I got him?" "Even if you said that, which you didn't, the common construction that one puts upon the phrase is----" "If you are going to use long words like that," I said, "I must refer you to my solicitor Bolton." Whereupon Bolton took counsel's opinion, and reported that he could not advise me to proceed in the matter. So Gerald took second wicket, and I fielded. However, one advantage of fielding was that I saw the editor's innings from start to finish at the closest quarters. He came in at the end of the first over, and took guard for "left hand round the wicket." "Would you give it me?" he said to Bolton. "These country umpires.... Thanks. And what's that over the wicket? Thanks." He marked two places with the bail. "How about having it from here?" I suggested at mid-on. "It's quite a good place and we're in a straight line with the church." The editor returned the bail, and held up his bat again. "That 'one-leg' all right? Thanks." He was proceeding to look round the field when a gentle voice from behind him said: "If you wouldn't mind moving a bit, sir, I could bowl." "Oh, is it over?" said the editor airily, trying to hide his confusion. "I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon." Still he had certainly impressed the sister of their captain, and it was dreadful to think of the disillusionment that might follow at any moment. However, as it happened, he had yet another trick up his sleeve. Bolton hit a ball to cover, and the editor, in the words of the local paper, "most sportingly sacrificed his wicket when he saw that his partner had not time to get back. It was a question, however, whether there was ever a run possible." Which shows that the reporter did not know of the existence of their captain's sister.