“It’s all jolly fine you men ragging me about my cross bat,” said poor Miss Grace, whose face had the tawny red of a tea-rose. “But if I was Ranjy, or Clem Hill, or Archie Trentham, or one of those big pots, people ’ud say it was a marvellous hook stroke, and the fruit of my wonderful original method.” “Yes,” said her enemy of Harrow, “if you were Ranjy, or Clem Hill, or Archie Trentham, or one of those big pots, your picture’d be in the Jubilee Cricket Book, with you in the act of droppin’ ’em into the cucumber frame. But as you don’t happen to be Ranjy, or Clem Hill, or Archie Trentham, or one of those big pots, but Miss Laura Mary, the cheekiest girl that ever put her hair in pins, your cross bat is beastly disgusting, and cruel rough on your people. And if your father don’t send for Shrewsbury to lick you into shape, we will, because you’ve got to be broke in, that’s certin. Whenever I think about your battin’, Laura,--it’s an insult to the Old Man to call you Grace,--it makes me downright sick.” “Gentlemen,” said the little parson, rising at this point in the peroration and speaking in his most clergymanly intonation, “must we not do our painful duty?” Whereon five men stood up as one, suddenly took young Tom from behind, and despite his struggles, bore him bodily to the biggest and prickliest gooseberry bush in the vicinity. They deposited him on the top of it, with what appeared unnecessary violence, and when he wriggled himself off, he brought away a rather uncomfortable quantity of needles in his epidermis. CHAPTER XIII A Case of Heredity WHEN peace had been restored, Captain George remarked, “_Apropos_ of the Guv’nor’s curl in the air, it’s very singular and a bit annoying too that Grace is the only one of us who has developed it. There’s no doubt that she’s got it. Don’t you think so, sir?” “Undoubtedly,” said the old gentleman. “And I think it is because she delivers the ball with a stiff arm, just as I used to do. It’s the clearest case of heredity that I ever saw.” “If Grace was not a girl,” said Archie, “she’d be the best bowler in England to-day. That curl from leg of hers, when it occasionally takes it into its head to come back from the off after it’s pitched requires more watching than anything I know.” “Grace, will you qualify for Kent?” said Carteret. Miss Grace, although somewhat embarrassed by the praises of these great men, which caused her to blush most adorably, was supremely happy. It was honey to her to be considered on her merits as a cricketer. “I wish this jolly leg curl was Charlie’s instead of mine,” said its flattered owner in the most unselfish manner. “What use is it to me? If Charlie’d got it now, Stoddy’d be obliged to take him with him in the autumn. Or even if that young cub of a Tommy had got it, it might get him in the county.”