“He’s made 98, the little horror!” said Grace indignantly. “I wonder if he ever will get out.” “_He’s_ all right,” said I. “He’s quite enjoying it.” A spell of very quiet play followed. Charlie’s wicket provoked him to bowl five maidens in succession to the Pessimist. But his sister was so keen a critic that this proceeding mightily displeased her. “Fast bowlers,” said she, “are all big hearts and brute force--no intellect at all you know. They’ve got about as many brains as a giddy old crocodile. What’s Charlie bowling like that for? Can’t he see that he’s just helping that man to play himself in? Why don’t he chuck him a ‘tice’ or a full toss, or something that’s downright bad--anything to make him have a go before he gets his eye in.” Ere long a thunderclap informed Hickory that yet another century had been scored against them that humiliating afternoon. The Ancient in defiance of all criticism had had the audacity to complete his hundred; and I for one believe most firmly that Hickory never would have got him out had not the Fates interfered on their behalf. For as he attempted one of his favourite short ones directly afterwards, A. H., fielding deep mid-off, dashed in like a deer, gathered the ball, and hurled down the Ancient’s wicket with the energy of despair, whilst that unfortunate was still cavorting a yard outside the crease. Oldknow had played a great innings, but----no, the Ancient is too sound a bat and far too good a fellow for a Little Clumpton man to say rude things about his play. Miss Grace, a thorough-going Hickoryite, had no such scruples. “Wasn’t that a bit of lovely fielding,” said she, drawing a deep breath. “I do like to see ’em field like that; and it’s Oldknow, is it? Helped himself to a hundred and one. I call that cheek. If he could only bat I shouldn’t care.” “Genius covers a multitude of sins,” said I. “It’s got to, if he’s a genius,” said Miss Grace; “but if that’s genius, give me something common. Bad taste and all that, I know; but that chap worries me. Besides, if he’s a genius, why don’t he wear long hair and look intense, like Paderewski. That might carry things off a bit, and keep people from looking at his batting, don’t you think?” “By Jove,” said I, “very good idea. I’ll suggest it to him.” The Humourist, known as Merryweather in private life, came out to the Pessimist. Cheers greeted his appearance. The crowd knew him of old. He was the most uncertain bat that ever put on pads. Oh, but if he only stayed! One Gilbert Jessop had to take second place if Merryweather only stayed. True, he only did stay about five times a season, but as no one knew the occasion he was likely to honour with his presence for any lengthened period, the apparition of his six feet three of smiling insolence always sent a thrill through the assembly.