The whole-hearted joy of them all was infectious. I might have a dim idea that my own county had yet to behave in a similar way towards one whom I held to be peculiarly worthy, but, none the less, I bore my part in the back thumpings as gallantly as any. The recipient of these congratulations, talkative to the point of calamity the moment before, was now in such a state of miserable happiness that he could not find a word to say. With his eyes fixed modestly on his plate he was white one minute, and red the next. His sister, however determined a foe she might be, was most unmistakably delighted. After inserting a strawberry into Elphinstone’s shirt-collar, not necessarily as a cause of offence, but rather as a guarantee of her excessive happiness, she ended by falling on her father bodily, and publicly hugging him. “Pater,” she said, “you don’t mind, do you? It is so horribly jolly nice to feel that Tommy’s playing on Monday, isn’t it?” About five minutes later the Harrow captain became the victim of an idea. “’Ought to reply now, I suppose,” he said nervously. “’Wonder if the boy’s gone. Would you say you’d play? What do you say, sir? What do you say, Grace? How would you word it? Don’t quite know what to do. Somehow feel I’m not altogether fit.” “It’s all right, Tommy; I _have_ replied,” said his sister. “You’re playing on Monday.” “It’s beas’ly good of you, old girl,” said her youngest brother. “What price Harrow’s principles now?” cried Carteret. “Here is the man who was not going to let his sister play the apostle with him. Wasn’t he going to let her see!” “Shut up, James,” said Miss Grace, “else you’ll get some more tea on your togs. Soon as a fellow plays for the county he gets sense knocked into him, and grows into a man quite suddenly. Now, Tommy, mind no more smoking this week; early to bed, you know, not a minute after ten; nice long morning walks, and, perhaps, a Turkish bath on Saturday. We must have you like--like a jumping cracker for Monday.” “Mayn’t I smoke cigarettes?” said the meek Tommy. “No, not one,” said his tyrannical sister. “And I shall put you on oysters and beef-tea. Oh, and cod-liver oil.” “Cod-liver oil?” said the prospective county man. He made a grimace. “Certainly,” said Miss Grace. “Archie and Charlie take a tablespoonful a day, don’t you? I simply insist on it, don’t I?” “Lord, yes!” groaned those great men. “S’pose _I’ve_ got to have it, then,” said the Harrow captain humbly. From this it should be seen that county cricket is not quite all beer and skittles. It has its drawbacks. The enthusiasm had scarcely had time to die when a solitary figure, in a grey flannel suit, came through the laurel bushes and over the lawn to the tumultuous tea-table. It was the Optimist. “Delighted to see you, my boy,” said the Rector. “Sit down, and get at those strawberries.”