“But what price the bowling?” said Miss Grace more coaxingly than ever. “Notts is almost _too_ awful, an’ Yorkshire’s a bit fluffy on a plumb pitch. As for Household Brigade and Gentlemen o’ Cheshire, I wouldn’t mind an hour or two myself of their sort--just about my weight. _Do_ hope Halliday’ll declare. Great error if he don’t. Our men are so tired, too; you might scuttle us like fun.” “Or we mightn’t,” said I callously. “And I can’t help thinking that we mightn’t. Halliday will be well advised to go for the record. Of course, if we’d got some bowling, we’d be at you like a shot.” The Captain was plainly of my mind, for he gave no sign, and the unhappy Optimist, much against his inclination, climbed down from the box, and wended his way to the pavilion. “Why did Jack put me in so early?” his agonised expression said. “He knows I always like to go in tenth.” The General Nuisance reigned in the stead of the Humourist now. Though the General Nuisance might be mistaken for an utter fiend in private life, his batting on hard grounds was angelic. People who had not to support the personal acquaintance of the Honourable John Blenkinsop-Comfort were often heard to inquire why he had never got his “blue,” and why his exquisite batting was not more generally recognised by the authorities. It is no desire of mine to betray anybody’s confidences, but I feel sure the authorities _must_ have had very excellent reasons. No doubt, as in the melancholy case of Miss Grace and Harrow School, they felt that somewhere they were bound to draw the line. “390 up, boy!” called Miss Grace. The next over she broke into mirth of a most undisguised character. “Toddles is going on,” she said. “I’ll put that in my diary.” Forthwith producing a small book from her pocket, she inquired for the date, and placed this pleasant fact in the annals of the world. “Well, there’s one thing to be said for Toddles’ bowling,” said its historian. “It can’t be called derogatory to his cloth. It’s just the stuff a parson should roll up.” “Why?” I asked in my innocence. “There’s no devil in it,” said Miss Grace. “Oh!” I said. I subsided. The Reverend Mr. Elphinstone’s deliveries were slow, simple-minded toss-ups of the most innocuous kind. The Pessimist and the General Nuisance having helped themselves to twenty-seven in two overs, the patentee and sole manufacturer of this sort of bowling was incontinently shunted for Captain George, who gallantly went on with lobs. The happiness of that intrepid officer’s sister was good to observe.