“Bloomin’ ’ard and bloomin’ ’igh and bloomin’ often,” was his game. He was a man who carried few theological ideas, but it was understood that his conception of Paradise was a place of short boundaries and unlimited lob-bowling. He had a partiality for the Park, as it fulfilled the first of these conditions. “Isn’t this your Slogger?” asked Miss Grace. “Now that slogging’s at a premium,” said I, “we’d call him a fine, free, forcing batsman.” “I wish these boundaries weren’t so jolly small,” said Miss Grace with an apprehensive eye. “I don’t like to see a man his inches come in smiling.” The first ball the Humourist received he sent humming over our coach into a cornfield at the back. During the interval in which Hickory endeavoured to recover it, the remarkable silence of the Optimist attracted my attention. It was so foreign to his usual habit of kind discursiveness that I felt there must be some grave reason for it. He had not uttered a word for forty minutes. “Brightside, when do you go in?” said I. “Next but one,” he sighed. This was a sufficient explanation. The man was suffering. He was determined to be cheerful, but could not disguise the pallor underneath his tan. He drummed his fingers nervously on his knees; a restlessness had taken him; there was a wild look in his eye. Seizing a moment when Miss Grace was occupied in evolving from the analysis the number of runs Charlie had paid for his solitary wicket the Optimist whispered,-- “Shouldn’t care a bit, you know, if she wasn’t here. I was never properly coached at school, you know. I will draw away from leg balls, you know. If Charlie bowls any, you know, sure as death, I shall retire towards the umpire. Do you think she’ll be able to tell that from here?” “They say Abel does the same,” said I evasively. “And I’ve got no wrist, you know. Can’t cut a bit, you know. Have to sort o’ shove ’em, you know, with my arms and shoulders.” “Quite a coincidence,” said I, “for they always say that the Old Man does all his cutting with his arms and shoulders.” “And I’m always scraping forward and feeling for ’em. Get so beastly flurried if I wait, that I’m certain to be bowled.” “Well,” said I, “it’s the sort of wicket on which you can play forward to anything. Hard as concrete.” “But she’s fair death on style,” said the poor old Optimist. “She’s got such a terrible high standard, don’t you know? Asked her this morning what she thought of A. H.’s batting. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘Archie’s a pretty fair _rustic_ bat.’” “She may take a much higher view of yours,” said I. “Women are that funny, you don’t know when you’ve got ’em. Shouldn’t be a bit surprised if she don’t fall in with your style on the spot, for really I’ve seen worse.” “Not much,” groaned the poor old Optimist.