THE great men were now coming out in twos and threes to have a knock. “Hullo!” said I, “that’s Elphinstone. Remember him at ‘the House.’ There’s not much of him, but what there is is all-sufficing. And just look at those great big bounding Trenthams. Anyone of ’em could put the little parson in his pocket. And I say, Ancient, do you notice that the young one, about the build of Townsend--I mean the one clapping his hands for the ball--do you notice that he’s an enlarged copy of the young person in brown holland? Same hair, and eyes, and nose, and everything; same cheerful enterprising look. It’s a million to a hay-seed she’s a Trentham, too.” But the Optimist approached, an encyclopædia of the scientific and the useful. “Brightside,” said the Ancient, “we want to know who that girl is who’s sticking up A. H. like Alfred Shaw.” “Better go and ask Lawson,” said the Optimist. “I’ve just suggested that he puts a placard up in the refreshment tent to the effect that the singularly interesting being in brown holland is Miss Laura Mary Trentham, yet another member of the world-famous cricket family of that name. Lawson’s being simply besieged with questions.” “But A. H. called her Grace just now?” “Her baptismal name is Laura Mary, but they call her Grace because she keeps five portraits of that hero on her bedroom mantelpiece. Rumour also says that she keeps strands of his beard stowed away in secret drawers. This she indignantly denies, however, as she swears that if she’d got them she’d wear them in a brooch.” “H’m! And what an extraordinary resemblance there is between her and T. S. M.” “They’re twins. She’s about an hour the older of the two, and I believe she bullies him outrageously. And I rather think she gives her honourable and reverend papa, and the remainder of the family, a pretty lively time. Why, here’s the old gentleman himself.” The Captain and the Humourist were accompanying a fine old clergyman in an inspection of the wicket. He was gigantically built. His perfectly white hair lent him a venerable expression that was hardly borne out by his massive shoulders and athletic figure, for they had not the faintest suspicion of age. “By Jove!” said the Optimist in enthusiastic tones, “that old boy’s been a player in his day. In the fifties he practically beat the Players single-handed more than once. In fact, the old buffers say at Lord’s that for three years he was the best amateur bowler that there’s ever been. Of course wickets have altered since his time, but up at Lord’s they swear that Spofforth at his best was never in it with ‘the Reverent.’” “’Don’t wonder then,” said I, “that this Clerk in Holy Orders has got such a devil of a family. Look out, mind your heads!”