Captain George, of the Artillery, had chosen that moment to open his shoulders to the youthful T. S. M. with the result that a lovely skimming drive dropped twenty yards in front of the pavilion and bounced with a rattle on to the corrugated iron roof. We had barely time to observe this when a buzz of amazement went round the crowded ring. It seemed that at last A. H., of Middlesex, had “had a go” at one of the insidious deliveries of Miss Grace, his sister, with the result that he lifted her from the far net clean over the ladies’ tent. “Yes,” said the Ancient, “they appear to be a thoroughly amiable, courteous, carefully brought-up, gentle-mannered family. There they go. It’s H. C.’s turn now. He’s very nearly killed a little boy. They seem to bowl like hell, and hit like kicking horses!” This brought misfortune to us in hard reality. The General Nuisance strolled up with his permanent simper. “Oldknow,” said he, “unwillingly I heard the profane utterance of your pagan mind. It is grievous for a man of your parts and understanding to give way to language of that character. But you will be glad to hear that our esteemed Secretary, Lawson, is suffering at this moment from an attack of incipient paralysis. It appears that that blackguard of a Billy is confined to bed.” “The brute!” “The beast!” “The pig!” “What I we are actually left to face a team like this with one bowler?” said I, the first to recover from the shock. “Don’t be in such a hurry,” said the General Nuisance, with his geniality rising almost to the point of hysteria. “We aren’t even left with one. As a matter of fact we haven’t a bowler of any sort. It’s true that we’ve any amount of the usual small change. I can bowl three long hops and two full tosses in an over, so can you; so can all of us; and that, dear friends, is what we’ve got to do.” “But you are forgetting Charlie,” said the Optimist of the lion heart. “Oh dear, no,” said the General Nuisance, “’wouldn’t forget him for the world. If you would only wait and let me break the news with my usual delicacy. Charlie’s just wired to say that his mother-in-law has been taken seriously ill, and that he and Mrs. Charlie have been obliged to go to town.” Straightway the Ancient wheeled about, and fled--fled with a curse into the recesses of the pavilion, far from the madding crowd, the pitiless sun, the perfect wicket, and those dreadful men from Hickory loosening their arms. “Tha-ank you! Tha-ank you!” called the bowler, as a pretty little leg hit from J. P. Carteret struck the inoffensive Optimist between the shoulder-blades. “Comfort,” said I, addressing myself to the General Nuisance, “if there had been the least sense of propriety in that rotten played-out thing called Providence, that ball had hit you on the head.” “Dear friends,” said the General Nuisance, “don’t you think that Charlie’s mother-in-law well maintains the traditions of her tribe?” “The abandoned old woman!” cried I.