“I think I’ll try that blind hit of Gunn’s between point and cover.” “All right, sir; if you’ll just wait while I move the water-jug. Your left leg a little more across--just a little; and how’s the late cut this morning, sir?” “Never healthier in its life. Here you are. Look out!” Crash! Plop! The glass in the wardrobe door had met the fate of its predecessors. The aggravating thing about the wardrobe door is that if you have it of glass you must inevitably break it; yet should you have a plain panel you can’t see what angle your bat’s at and where your feet are. “I was hoping all the time that you’d smash it, sir,” said William in a confidential tone. “It’s a strange thing, sir, but every time you smash the wardrobe door you never get less than 50. If you remember, when you got that 82 last year against the Free Foresters you smashed it the morning of the match. Then that 61 against M.C.C. (O’Halloran and Roche an’ all), same thing occurred, if you recollect. And it’s my belief that you’ve smashed it worse this morning, sir, than you’ve ever done before. It _might_ be the century to-day, sir.” “I wonder if the water-jug or washhand-stand would help it,” said I reflectively; “because, William, if you really think they would----” “Somehow,” said William hastily, “I haven’t quite the same faith in that there water-jug. I remember once you cracked it right across the spout and got ‘run out 3’ on that particular mornin’. Captain Cooper called you, and then sent you back, if you remember, sir, when you was halfway down the pitch.” “I remember,” I groaned. “Those are the tragedies of which our little life is made!” “And the washhand-stand ain’t no good at all, sir. Why, when you knocked the leg off it in giving Mold the wood, you bagged a brace at Pigeon Hill that day on what they called a wicket, but what was really a hornamental lake.” “Spare me the horrible details, William,” I said. A cold sensation was creeping down my spine.