“If time don’t, stone-ginger will, and that’s a cert.,” said the irreverent Charlie. “Try one, old man”; and the best bowler in England poured out a Caley for the erring one. The little parson tossed it off, and fell upon a massive sandwich with a vigour that was in disproportion to his inches. It was one of the liveliest cricket lunches at which I ever assisted; and I think the heartiest. Miss Grace’s sandwiches had certainly been designed for very punishing batsmen and terrific fast bowlers. Two great slices of bread with a succulent chunk of beef between went to the making of them. He who ate one had partaken of no inconsiderable meal; he who ate two must have had an appetite of which any man ought to have been proud. But Miss Grace herself set us all a noble example. She fell on one of these tremendous slabs with the courage of a lion, and had a big stone-ginger all to herself. “Charlie,” said the little parson, “we’d better put Grace on at the top end after lunch. She seems in great form.” “’Wish you would,” said Grace wistfully. “I’d shift ’em. ’Just feel like it. Pass the mustard, Mr. Dimsdale. Thanks aw’fly. Cheery, help yourself. ’Won’t wait to be invited, will you? You’ll find some apples underneath. Now then, Toddles, buck up! You’re not in church. Ham or beef? ’Nother beer for Charlie.” “If we’d only got some gin, it would improve it,” sighed England’s best bowler. “Mr. Dimsdale, if you’ll look in the left-hand corner, right down at the bottom,” said Miss Grace, “you’ll find a bottle. Charlie, how dare you! Don’t you touch that fizz. Mr. Dimsdale, I repose _implicit_ confidence in you.” “Grace,” said the best bowler in England, brandishing the gin bottle, “you’re a trump!” “Always was,” said Miss Grace. “But it’s not until Middlesex and Kent get beastly, jolly hungry that they think it worth their while to talk about it.” “Oh, you’ve got your points,” said her brother. “You do know how to feed us. ’Seem to know exactly what we like. Your feeding’s lovely. Look at these sandwiches; they’re a dream.” “Two of ’em ’d be a nightmare,” said the little parson. “For a man your size, perhaps,” Miss Grace said. “Ought to have brought a few of those anchovy things for you. And, Toddles, I forbid you to have gin. Sure to get into your head, you know, and then you’d miss another catch.” “Here, no-ball! That’s a chuck!” cried Charlie. “I’ll have Jim Phillips to you, Grace. You don’t give the poor chap a chance.” “Charlie, if you’re rude you’ll get no fizz.” Miss Grace foraged in the hamper and produced two bottles of that giddy liquid. She promptly began to unwire them, too. Disdaining our earnest and repeated offers to withdraw the corks, she pulled them out herself with considerable ease and neatness, saying,--