“Ra-_ther_. His style’s O. K. He watches the ball, too.” “But it’s such a beautiful wicket,” said I. “You can play forward at anything.” “It _is_ a good wicket,” she said, “but I could see you watching Charlie all the way. And that’s where ’Varsity bats generally fail, don’t you know. Seen dozens of ’em, blues too, and wonderful school reputations, and all that, regular ‘lions on lawns.’ Put on ’em a Burroughes and Watts’, and they’ll play like the Badminton. But just let the wicket begin to ‘talk’ a bit, then it’s another story. Let me see, were you not in the Winchester eleven?” “Yes,” I said; “just got in.” “You must have been well coached. I do like to see a man look at the ball. Oh, was that a hit? No; byes. Dear! dear! Edgcome is a dreadful muff behind the sticks. Can’t take Charlie at all. Why don’t he stand back farther? Or why don’t they have a long-stop? All right, umpire!” The umpire having waved his finger to signal the byes, the scorer waved hers to show that she had got them. “Forty up!” she called down to the small boy who was attending to “the telegraph.” “It’s about time we had another wicket, don’t you think?” “We are all serene at present,” said the Optimist cheerily. “I think Halliday’s about played himself in, and there’s no man better worth watching when he takes root. Oh! very pretty, Jack. Run ’em out!” He had just got one of H. C.’s fastest away for three. A frown clouded the open countenance of Miss Grace. “Toddles,” she cried to the Rev. E. J. H. Elphinstone, who was nearest to us in the out-field, “just tell Charlie to tell George to take one of those men out of the slips and put him for the draw. Oh, and Toddles, tell him not too deep to save the single. We’re going to give nothing away if _I_ can help it.” “Why do they call him Toddles?” said I. “’Cause his legs are so short,” she said curtly. “Oh, and just look where he’s got his mid-on. Toddles, tell him his mid-on wants to be straighter. George may be a good old sort, and all that, but he’s no more fit to be captain than he is to play for England. But I should have thought Archie _would_ have known better.” As I was at pains to subsequently explain to those members of our side who were not privileged to be sitting beside Miss Grace Trentham, it was a most fascinating thing to observe her conducting a highly technical and animated conversation, ordering a team of county cricketers about with some caustic comments on the same, scoring every run, taking the analysis, and keeping her eye on the small boy, “the telegraph,” and all the fine points of the game. “Mr. Dimsdale,” she said, after Captain George had carried out the sedulously conveyed commands of his sister, “Mr. Dimsdale, what were you about, to get out to a long hop of my young brother Tom’s? He can’t bowl a little bit. No length no spin, no break, no devil, no anything. Plain as print! Over-confidence, perhaps?” “I’m afraid it was,” I confessed.