Here the voice of this unflinching critic, who really had been born half a century too late, such an ornament she would have been to _Blackwood_ and the _Quarterly_ in their palmy days, put an end to our painful conversation. As the field were returning with the ball, she bent over the wheels to tell her brother Charlie, in a not inaudible undertone: “Forty-three overs, twelve maidens, eighty-nine runs, one wicket. Sounds good don’t it. ’Nother wicket’d be a rather nice idea. Trying bowling left hand Charlie,--couldn’t be worse than Tommy’s plough-and-harrow-agricultural-produce anyhow.” The Harrow captain hearing this was observed to display some colour, and march hastily out of earshot. But a worse fate awaited him on his arrival at the crease. The Humourist, having hit his first ball for six in his playful way, proceeded to treat his second with a similar levity by lifting that over the pavilion. This, however, did not appeal in the least to Harrow’s sense of humour. Therefore, when its captain pitched his third ball ridiculously short, the gentle Humourist had time to wait and sweep it round to the square-leg boundary. But it was not here that the youthful Tom’s humiliation ended. The Humourist walked sedately down the wicket to the bowler’s end, and proceeded to pat down the turf near the bowler’s foot. “’Serves him jolly well right,” said Miss Grace hotly, “it’ll teach these public school cubs not to be so jolly cheeky.” But here the spirit of compassion suddenly appeared in the victim’s sister. Her eyes showed that she also resented the liberties thus taken with a member of her family. “I tell you what though,” she added as an afterthought; “it strikes me that that Merryweather of yours is a pretty big piece of a brute. Poor old Tommy! I wish he’d bowl him.” For some little time, however, the Humourist went on his way rejoicing. He swiped two of Charlie’s best, high over the head of cover-point, in the most amazing manner, and it was only when in the exuberance of his heart that he tried to serve a yorker in a similar fashion, that the honour of the Trenthams was avenged. The playful Humourist had included two sixes and three fours in his twenty-eight. “Why don’t Halliday declare,” said the poor Optimist, overborne with the knowledge that he must go forthwith and put his pads on. “Yes, why don’t he?” said Miss Grace. “We’ve not got a bit of bowling,” said I. “But our batting’s not very clever, you know,” said Miss Grace enticingly. “Really,” said I. “But then some of us looked in this morning’s _Sportsman_, and from our point of view it didn’t read pretty.”