“That is a punishment that defeats itself,” the Rector said. “Last time I took that course, these big brothers of yours, who are old enough to know better, aided and abetted you to the extent of subscribing twice the amount of pocket-money that you were losing. Why, you were able to buy a new bat out of the profits of your crimes.” “Oh, no,” said Miss Grace quickly, “it was good old George who gave me that. I can’t help old George being such a good sort, can I?” “For valour, sir,” said the soldier, “always admire mettle, even in criminals of the deepest dye.” “You are all as bad as one another,” said the old gentleman, sitting down to tea. “Father,” said the hostess, “you are sitting next to Mr. Dimsdale, who’ll soon be playing for his county. He’s got the loveliest crack to cover that you ever saw.” “Very glad to see you, sir,” said the old gentleman, “and I hope you’ll excuse my display of heat. It takes a gardener to appreciate my feelings. One cricket ball in one minute will find more repairs for Nature than she can get through in a year.” “I was thinking to myself, father, when you interrupted me,” said Miss Grace, “that cricket nowadays is not what it was in your time. Where are the great men of your day? There’s no Haywards and Carpenters now; and there’s no Tarrants and Willshers. Where is the man that can bowl like old John Jackson, where is the chap that can hit to leg like old George Parr?” It is a very painful thing for a determined admirer of Miss Grace’s sex to set down in black and white, but I’m sure that, with one exception, every man around that festive tea-table instinctively distrusted Miss Grace’s extremely solemn countenance. The one exception, incredible as it may seem, was Miss Grace’s honourable and reverend papa. “By Jove!” cried the best bowler in England, playing his sister’s wicked, unscrupulous game, “Grace is right. There’s no stars like there used to be in the Guv’nor’s time.” “Yes, Charlie,” said Miss Grace, “I’m very sorry to say it, but cricket’s going down. Tom Richardson, Johnny Briggs, Arthur Mold, and Charlie Trentham are not fit to tie the boots of George Freeman, Jimmy Shaw, David Buchanan, and ‘The Reverent.’ And the batting too. The Old Man was in his prime in the seventies, Shrewsbury’s getting on, and where are you to find a man with the style of Dicky Daft? and even Toddles can’t cut like old Eph. Lockwood, and Archie can’t lift ’em like Charlie Thornton. Cricket was cricket then. It wasn’t so much like billiards. Batsmen had to face their luck on all sorts o’ pitches, whilst now they get their wickets laid and prepared just like a jolly old foundation stone.” It may be that the end justified the means. For certain it is that Miss Grace’s parent forgot all about his mutilated garden. The old gentleman sat and beamed. He began to sip his tea and talk of other times. “Ha!” he sighed, “I envy you young dogs. I _should_ like to have a try at those Australians!”