Bowling slow, elementary, underhand twisters, I kept running after them up the pitch in a frankly dare-devil manner, and several times took red-hot cracks travelling to mid-off about ten yards from Grace’s bat. Runs continued to come, however, just as they thought fit apparently, but my fielding was so whole-hearted that broad grins presently succeeded derisive smiles on the faces of those who witnessed it. But the five became fifteen in no time. Nine more and all was over. The imminence of disaster nerved me to superhuman efforts. Grace mistimed one ball a little, and as it rose from her bat for a short distance, I sprawled arms and legs up the pitch, and literally hurled myself at it. I just contrived to touch it with my finger-tips as it fell. Had it come off it would have been something to talk about; as it was, it cost divers seasoned cricketers a blink of astonishment. [Illustration: “I just contrived to touch it.” _Willow, the King._] [_Page 306._] “Dimmy,” said the one wielding the willow, “aren’t you afraid o’ your backbone at all?” It was apparent that she was becoming impressed. With that thought I recalled the words of the penetrating Archie: “All women have their weakness. Grace’s is for good fielding.” I must show her what I could do. After vainly striving to reach one that she pulled well wide of mid-on for three, she said,-- “Dimmy, please don’t do that. It worries me. I’m so afraid that you’ll twist yourself into something that could never be untied. That would be horrible, wouldn’t it? And I’m _so_ afraid of your backbone.” “It is in your own power,” said I, “to end these gyrations. You have only got to get out, you know.” Her score had now reached twenty. Four more and a life’s happiness was wrecked. Hope there was none. She was thoroughly set, and capable of doing anything with the miserable stuff that I was rolling up. It was in vain that I altered the position of the field after the delivery of every ball. She inevitably dispatched the one that followed past the precise place from which the man had just been taken. Her batting was really cruel in its complacence and resource. The grim gleam that illuminated her look knocked at my heart. A gleam does _not_ knock as a rule, I know, but many and strange things are allowed to happen to the heart of a man in my desperate predicament. The light-minded fieldsmen thought it quite a joke, however, and they proferred no end of wise suggestions. Had I not better have my point a bit squarer; my mid-off a bit deeper; my extra cover a bit more round; and the two men guarding the cucumber frame standing in front of the cucumbers, instead of sitting on the woodwork? I thanked them in a chastened tone for being so very helpful.