“Oh, I’ll see you through with it,” said the Optimist, who, I have reason to believe, was the most unselfish person in the world. Let this explain, then, how it came about that at a little before eight, the pair of us dressed, and presently sallied below to obtain a ball wherewith I might develop the theory and practice of bowling. It was not, of course, to be expected that our companions in the late pious orgies would be yet abroad; indeed, we felt ourselves to be quite early. It was not at all a difficult affair to procure the article of which we were in need, as the first domestic to whom we broached the subject directed us to a receptacle where bats, balls, stumps, pads, gloves and “blanco” were heaped together in profuse disorder. On sallying out to the lawn, however, the very first object our eyes fell on gave us no inconsiderable shock. Miss Grace was assisting Biffin to prepare the wicket with a small but apparently heavy hand-roller. Involuntarily the pair of us, guilty as we felt ourselves to be, made a motion to withdraw. Alas! too late! we had been observed. “Mornin’, Cheery; mornin’, Dimmy,” cried Miss Grace, in a voice as strong as a blackbird’s. “Come and roll a bit. We’ve been at it an hour or more.” There was no alternative but somewhat reluctantly to approach. “Why, what an early bird you are!” I began. “I thought you said breakfast was at half-past ten.” “For you idle men,” said she. “_I’ve_ had one already, and shall be ready for another by then. ’Must lend Biffin a hand; he’d never have these wickets O.K. else.” “What time does the match begin?” I asked, to keep up the conversation, whilst I tried to smuggle unseen the tell-tale ball into my coat. “Wicket pitched at twelve o’clock,” said Grace. “And it’s all right, Dimmy, I saw you. You can fetch it out again. You want to do a bit of bowling, don’t you? Want to find a bit of a length? Well, if you’ll just roll a few up I’ll give you some tips.” Impatient Reader, I ask you to conceive the situation! Conceive the irony, the pathos! Here was the very person I was trying to overcome in deadly combat, having the audacity to show me how to set about it. A person of a more sanguine temperament, the Optimist for instance, might have argued from these premises that the enemy was actually courting defeat. But I knew by the half-pitying, half-contemptuous way in which the offer was made, that it sprang from her own joyous self-confidence, and that she was inclined to regard me as a foe who not for a single moment was to be considered seriously. Grace’s keen eye and her deductive faculty made me decidedly uncomfortable. It is not nice to be found out and then be so ruthlessly exposed. And I regret to say that the Optimist, who had nothing at stake, was sufficiently human to enjoy my misfortune. “Who told you what Dimsdale was up to?” he said. I believe that it is no injustice to the Optimist to state that he was trying to prolong my pain.