“By Jove!” said the Optimist in enthusiastic tones, “that old boy’s been a player in his day. In the fifties he practically beat the Players single-handed more than once. In fact, the old buffers say at Lord’s that for three years he was the best amateur bowler that there’s ever been. Of course wickets have altered since his time, but up at Lord’s they swear that Spofforth at his best was never in it with ‘the Reverent.’”
“’Don’t wonder then,” said I, “that this Clerk in Holy Orders has got such a devil of a family. Look out, mind your heads!”
Captain George, of the Artillery, had chosen that moment to open his shoulders to the youthful T. S. M. with the result that a lovely skimming drive dropped twenty yards in front of the pavilion and bounced with a rattle on to the corrugated iron roof. We had barely time to observe this when a buzz of amazement went round the crowded ring. It seemed that at last A. H., of Middlesex, had “had a go” at one of the insidious deliveries of Miss Grace, his sister, with the result that he lifted her from the far net clean over the ladies’ tent.
“Yes,” said the Ancient, “they appear to be a thoroughly amiable, courteous, carefully brought-up, gentle-mannered family. There they go. It’s H. C.’s turn now. He’s very nearly killed a little boy. They seem to bowl like hell, and hit like kicking horses!”
This brought misfortune to us in hard reality. The General Nuisance strolled up with his permanent simper.
“Oldknow,” said he, “unwillingly I heard the profane utterance of your pagan mind. It is grievous for a man of your parts and understanding to give way to language of that character. But you will be glad to hear that our esteemed Secretary, Lawson, is suffering at this moment from an attack of incipient paralysis. It appears that that blackguard of a Billy is confined to bed.”
“The brute!”
“The beast!”
“The pig!”
“What I we are actually left to face a team like this with one bowler?” said I, the first to recover from the shock.