The Regiment was playing the Rifle Brigade at Rawlpindi in the last round for the Holkar Cup. Half-way through the second day, when the Hammer-men were batting, a rot set in. There were still two hours to play when the last man went in.
"Who is it?" asked Mrs. Lewknor, keen as a knife.
"Your friend, Caspar, Mrs. Lewknor," answered the senior subaltern, one Conky Joe, with the beak of a penguin, the eyes of an angel, and the heart of a laughter-loving boy. "They're sending him in last for his sins in the field—which were many and grievous."
"He won't live long against their fast bowler," commented the Boy gloomily. "I know Caspar."
"I never like to differ from my superiors," said the Colonel. "But I'm not so sure."
"Nor am I," said Mrs. Lewknor defiantly.
The Colonel and his wife proved right. Ernie batted with astonishing confidence from the first. At the end of twenty minutes it was anybody's game. Royal, well into his second century, was flogging the ball all over the ground. And Ernie's clear voice—"Yes, sir! No, sir! Stay where you are!" gave new heart to the watching Hammer-men.
In the end the two men played out time with consummate ease, and were carried together off the ground.
"It was like bowling at two rocks," said one of the defeated side.
"Spiteful rocks too!" replied the other. "Stood up and slashed at you!"