"Samuel, what's your age?" asked Myra at last.
"Right off the board," said Thomas.
"You're not really more than thirty-six?" Myra whispered to him. "Tell me as a secret."
"Peter's nearly two," said Dahlia.
"Do you think you could nearly put our money on 'two'?" asked Archie.
"I once made seventeen," I said. "On that never-to-be-forgotten day when I went in first with Archie——"
"That settles it. Here's to the highest score of The Rabbits' wicket-keeper. To-morrow afternoon we put our money on seventeen. Simpson, you have between now and 3.30 to-morrow to perfect your French delivery of the magic word dix-sept."
I went to bed a proud but anxious man that night. It was my famous score which had decided the figure that was to bring us fortune ... and yet ... and yet ...
Suppose eighteen turned up? The remorse, the bitterness! "If only," I should tell myself—"if only we had run three instead of two for that cut to square-leg!" Suppose it were sixteen! "Why, oh why," I should groan, "did I make the scorer put that bye down as a hit?" Suppose it wore thirty-four! But there my responsibility ended ... If it were going to be thirty-four, they should have used one of Archie's scores, and made a good job of it.
At 3.30 next day we were in the fatal building. I should like to pause here and describe my costume to you, which was a quiet grey in the best of taste, but Myra says that if I do this I must describe hers too, a feat beyond me. Sufficient that she looked dazzling, that as a party we were remarkably well-dressed, and that Simpson—murmuring "dix-sept" to himself at intervals—led the way through the rooms till he found a table to his liking.