Words were wholly inadequate, so I slouched heavily after that impossible ball. Again I hit it away into the night, in what I supposed was the vague direction of the quite invisible stick. And in the dead silence I heard the stick rattle as the ball struck it heavily. I threw down my mallet. “I can’t stand this,” I said. “My ball has gone right three times. These things are not of this world.” “Pick your mallet up,” said Parkinson, “have another go.” “I tell you I daren’t. If I made another hoop like that I should see all the devils dancing there on the blessed grass.” “Why devils?” asked Parkinson; “they may be only fairies making fun of you. They are sending you the ‘Perfect Game,’ which is no game.” I looked about me. The garden was full of a burning darkness, in which the faint glimmers had the look of fire. I stepped across the grass as if it burnt me, picked up the mallet, and hit the ball somewhere--somewhere where another ball might be. I heard the dull click of the balls touching, and ran into the house like one pursued. V. The Extraordinary Cabman From time to time I have introduced into this newspaper column the narration of incidents that have really occurred. I do not mean to insinuate that in this respect it stands alone among newspaper columns. I mean only that I have found that my meaning was better expressed by some practical parable out of daily life than by any other method; therefore I propose to narrate the incident of the extraordinary cabman, which occurred to me only three days ago, and which, slight as it apparently is, aroused in me a moment of genuine emotion bordering upon despair.