II. THE SELECTION COMMITTEE

The committee consisted of Henry and myself. Originally it was

myself alone, but as soon as I had selected Henry I proceeded to

co-opt him, reserving to myself, however, the right of a casting vote

in case of any difference of opinion. One arose, almost immediately,

over Higgins. Henry said:

(_a_) That Higgins had once made ninety-seven.

(_b_) That he had been asked to play for his county.

(_c_) That he was an artist, and we had arranged to have an artist in

the team.

In reply I pointed out:

(_a_) That ninety-seven was an extremely unlikely number for anyone

to have made.

(_b_) That if he had been asked he evidently hadn't accepted, which

showed the sort of man he was: besides which, what was his county?

(_c_) That, assuming for the moment he had made ninety-seven, was it

likely he would consent to go in last and play for a draw, which was

why we wanted the artist? And that, anyhow, he was a jolly bad

artist.

(d) That hadn't we better put it to the vote?

This was accordingly done, and an exciting division ended in a tie.

Those in favour of Higgins 1

Those against Higgins 1

The Speaker gave his casting vote against Higgins.

Prior to this, however, I had laid before the House the letter of

invitation. It was as follows (and, I flatter myself, combined tact

with a certain dignity):--

"DEAR----, I am taking a team into the country on Friday week to play

against the village eleven. The ground and the lunch are good. Do

you think you could manage to come down? I know you are very busy

just now with

Contangers,

Briefs,

Clients,

Your Christmas Number,

Varnishing Day,

(_Strike out all but one of these_)

but a day in the country would do you good. I hear from all sides

that you are in great form this season. I will give you all

particulars about trains later on. Good-bye. Remember me to----.

How is----? Ever yours.

"_P.S._--Old Henry is playing for us. He has strained himself a

little and probably won't bowl much, so I expect we shall all have a

turn with the ball."

_Or_, "I don't think you have ever met Henry Barton, the cricketer.

He is very keen on meeting you. Apparently he has seen you play

somewhere. He will be turning out for us on Friday.

"_P.P.S._--We might manage to have some bridge in the train."

"That," I said to Henry, "is what I call a clever letter."

"What makes you think that?"

"It is all clever," I said modestly. "But the cleverest part is a

sentence at the end. 'I will give you all particulars about trains

later on.' You see I have been looking them up, and we leave

Victoria at seven-thirty A.M. and get back to London Bridge at

eleven-forty-five P.M."

The answers began to come in the next day. One of the first was from

Bolton, the solicitor, and it upset us altogether. For, after

accepting the invitation, he went on: "I am afraid I don't play

bridge. As you may remember, I used to play chess at Cambridge, and

I still keep it up."

"Chess," said Henry. "That's where White plays and mates in two

moves. And there's a Black too. He does something."

"We shall have to get a Black. This is awful."

"Perhaps Bolton would like to do problems by himself all the time."

"That would be rather bad luck on him. No, look here. Here's Carey.

Glad to come, but doesn't bridge. He's the man."

Accordingly we wired to Carey: "Do you play chess? Reply at once."

He answered, "No. Why?"

"Carey will have to play that game with glass balls. Solitaire.

Yes. We must remember to bring a board with us."

"But what about the chess gentleman?" asked Henry.

"I must go and find one. We've had one refusal."

There is an editor I know slightly, so I called upon him at his

office. I found him writing verses.

"Be brief," he said, "I'm frightfully busy."

"I have just three questions to ask you," I replied.

"What rhymes with 'yorker'?"

"That wasn't one of them."

"Yorker--corker--por----"

"Better make it a full pitch," I suggested. "Step out and make it a

full pitch. Then there are such lots of rhymes."

"Thanks, I will. Well?"

"One. Do you play bridge?"

"No."

"Two. Do you play chess?"

"I can."

"Three. Do you play cricket? Not that it matters."

"Yes, I do sometimes. Good-bye. Send me a proof, will you? By the

way, what paper is this for?"

"_The Sportsman_, if you'll play. On Friday week. Do."

"Anything, if you'll go."

"May I have that in writing?"

He handed me a rejection form.

"There you are. And I'll do anything you like on Friday."

I went back to Henry and told him the good news.

"I wonder if he'll mind being black," said Henry. "That's the chap

that always gets mated so quickly."

"I expect they'll arrange it among themselves. Anyhow, we've done

our best for them."

"It's an awful business, getting up a team," said Henry thoughtfully.

"Well, we shall have two decent sets of bridge, anyway. But you

ought to have arranged for twelve aside, and then we could have left

out the chess professors and had three sets."

"It's all the fault of the rules. Some day somebody will realise

that four doesn't go into eleven, and then we shall have a new rule."

"No, I don't think so," said Henry. "I don't fancy 'Wanderer' would

allow it."

III. IN THE TRAIN

If there is one thing I cannot stand, it is ingratitude. Take the

case of Carey. Carey, you may remember, professed himself unable to

play either bridge or chess; and as we had a three-hour journey

before us it did not look as though he were going to have much of a

time. However, Henry and I, thinking entirely of Carey's personal

comfort, went to the trouble of buying him a solitaire board, with

glass balls complete. The balls were all in different colours.

I laid this before Carey as soon as we settled in the train.

"Whatever's that?"

"The new game," I said. "It's all the rage now, the man tells me.

The Smart Set play it every Sunday. Young girls are inveigled into

lonely country houses and robbed of incredible sums."

Carey laughed scornfully.

"So it is alleged," I added. "The inventor claims for it that in

some respects it has advantages which even cricket cannot claim. As,

for instance, it can be played in any weather: nay, even upon the

sick bed."

"And how exactly is it played?"

"Thus. You take one away and all the rest jump over each other. At

each jump you remove the jumpee, and the object is to clear the

board. Hence the name--solitaire."

"I see. It seems a pretty rotten game."

That made me angry.

"All right. Then don't play. Have a game of marbles on the rack

instead."

Meanwhile Henry was introducing Bolton and the editor to each other.

"Two such famous people," he began.

"Everyone," said Bolton, with a bow, "knows the editor of----"

"Oh yes, there's that. But I meant two such famous chess players.

Bolton," he explained to the editor, "was twelfth man against Oxford

some years ago. Something went wrong with his heart, or he'd have

got in. On his day, and if the board was at all sticky, he used to

turn a good deal from QB4."

"Do you really play?" asked Bolton eagerly. "I have a board here."

"Does he play! Do you mean to say you have never heard of the

Trocadero Defence?"

"The Sicilian Defence----"

"The Trocadero Defence. It's where you palm the other man's queen

when he's not looking. Most effective opening."

They both seemed keen on beginning, so Henry got out the cards for

the rest of us.

I drew the younger journalist, against Henry and the senior

stockbroker. Out of compliment to the journalist we arranged to play

half-a-crown a hundred, that being about the price they pay him. I

dealt, and a problem arose immediately. Here it is.

"A deals and leaves it to his partner B, who goes No Trumps. Y leads

a small heart. B's hand consists of king and three small diamonds,

king and one other heart, king and three small clubs, and three small

spades. A plays the king from Dummy, and Z puts on the ace. What

should A do?"

Answer. Ring communication-cord and ask guard to remove B.

"Very well," I said to Dummy. "One thing's pretty clear. You don't

bowl to-day. Long-leg both ends is about your mark. Somewhere where

there's plenty of throwing to do."

Later on, when I was Dummy, I strolled over to the chess players.

"What's the ground like?" said the editor, as he finessed a knight.

"Sporting. Distinctly sporting."

"Long grass all round, I suppose?"

"Oh, lord, no. The cows eat up all that."

"Do you mean to say the cows are allowed on the pitch?"

"Well, they don't put it that way, quite. The pitch is allowed on

the cows' pasture land."

"I suppose if we make a hundred we shall do well?" asked somebody.

"If we make fifty we shall declare," I said. "By Jove, Bolton,

that's a pretty smart move."

I may not know all the technical terms, but I do understand the idea

of chess. The editor was a pawn up and three to play, and had just

advanced his queen against Bolton's king, putting on a lot of check

side as it seemed to me. Of course, I expected Bolton would have to

retire his king; but not he! He laid a stymie with his bishop, and

it was the editor's queen that had to withdraw. Yet Bolton was only

spare man at Cambridge!

"I am not at all sure," I said, "that chess is not a finer game even

than solitaire."

"It's a finer game than cricket," said Bolton, putting his bishop

back in the slips again.

"No," said the editor. "Cricket is the finest game in the world.

For why? I will tell you."

"Thanks to the glorious uncertainty of our national pastime," began

the journalist, from his next Monday's article.

"No, thanks to the fact that it is a game in which one can produce

the maximum of effect with the minimum of skill. Take my own case.

I am not a batsman, I shall never make ten runs in an innings, yet

how few people realise that! I go in first wicket down, wearing my

M.C.C. cap. Having taken guard with the help of a bail, I adopt

Palairet's stance at the wicket. Then the bowler delivers: either to

the off, to leg, or straight. If it is to the off, I shoulder my bat

and sneer at it. If it is to leg, I swing at it. I have a beautiful

swing, which is alone worth the money. Probably I miss, but the

bowler fully understands that it is because I have not yet got the

pace of the wicket. Sooner or later he sends down a straight one,

whereupon I proceed to glide it to leg. You will see the stroke in

Beldam's book. Of course, I miss the ball, and am given out l.b.w.

Then the look of astonishment that passes over my face, the

bewildered inquiry of the wicket-keeper, and finally the shrug of

good-humoured resignation as I walk from the crease! Nine times out

of ten square-leg asks the umpire what county I play for. That is

cricket."

"Quite so," I said, when he had finished. "There's only one flaw in

it. That is that quite possibly you may have to go in last to-day.

You'll have to think of some other plan. Also on this wicket the

ball always goes well over your head. You couldn't be l.b.w. if you

tried."

"Oh, but I do try."

"Yes. Well, you'll find it difficult."

The editor sighed.

"Then I shall have to retire hurt," he said.

Bolton chuckled to himself.

"One never retires hurt at chess," he said, as he huffed the editor's

king. "Though once," he added proudly, "I sprained my hand, and had

to make all my moves with the left one. Check."

The editor yawned, and looked out of the window.

"Are we nearly there?" he asked.

IV. IN THE FIELD

It is, I consider, the duty of a captain to consult the wishes of his

team now and then, particularly when he is in command of such a

heterogeneous collection of the professions as I was. I was watching

a match at the Oval once, and at the end of an over Lees went up to

Dalmeny, and had a few words with him. Probably, I thought, he is

telling him a good story that he heard at lunch; or, maybe, he is

asking for the latest gossip from the Lobby. My neighbour, however,

held other views.

"There," he said, "there's ole Walter Lees asking to be took off."

"Surely not," I answered. "Dalmeny had a telegram just now, and Lees

is asking if it's the three-thirty winner."

Lees then began to bowl again.

"There you are," I said triumphantly, but my neighbour wouldn't hear

of it.

"Ole Lees asked to be took off, and ole Dalmeny" (I forget how he

pronounced it, but I know it was one of the wrong ways)--"ole Dalmeny

told him he'd have to stick on a bit."

Now that made a great impression on me, and I agreed with my friend

that Dalmeny was in the wrong.

"When I am captaining a team," I said, "and one of the bowlers wants

to come off, I am always ready to meet him half-way, more than

half-way. Better than that, if I have resolved upon any course of

action, I always let my team know beforehand; and I listen to their

objections in a fair-minded spirit."

It was in accordance with this rule of mine that I said casually, as

we were changing, "If we win the toss I shall put them in."

There was a chorus of protest.

"That's right, go it," I said. "Henry objects because, as a

first-class cricketer, he is afraid of what _The Sportsman_ will say

if we lose. The editor naturally objects--it ruins his chance of

being mistaken for a county player if he has to field first. Bolton

objects because heavy exercise on a hot day spoils his lunch.

Thompson objects because that's the way he earns his living at the

Bar. His objection is merely technical, and is reserved as a point

of law for the Court of Crown Cases Reserved. Markham is a socialist

and objects to authority. Also he knows he's got to field long-leg

both ends. Gerald----"

"But why?" said Henry.

"Because I want you all to see the wicket first. Then you can't say

you weren't warned." Whereupon I went out and lost the toss.

As we walked into the field the editor told me a very funny story. I

cannot repeat it here for various reasons. First, it has nothing to

do with cricket; and, secondly, it is, I understand, coming out in

his next number, and I should probably get into trouble. Also it is

highly technical, and depends largely for its success upon adequate

facial expression. But it amused me a good deal. Just as he got to

the exciting part, Thompson came up.

"Do you mind if I go cover?" he asked.

"Do," I said abstractedly. "And what did the vicar say?"

The editor chuckled. "Well, you see, the vicar, knowing, of course,

that----"

"Cover, I suppose," said Gerald, as he caught us up.

"What? Oh yes, please. The vicar did know, did he?"

"Oh, the vicar _knew_. That's really the whole point."

I shouted with laughter.

"Good, isn't it?" said the editor. "Well, then----"

"Have you got a cover?" came Markham's voice from behind us.

I turned round.

"Oh, Markham," I said, "I shall want you cover, if you don't mind.

Sorry--I must tell these men where to go--well, then, you were

saying----"

The editor continued the story. We were interrupted once or twice,

but he finished it just as their first two men came out. I

particularly liked that bit about the----

"Jove," I said suddenly, "we haven't got a wicket-keeper. That's

always the way. Can you keep?" I asked the editor.

"Isn't there anyone else?"

"I'm afraid they're all fielding cover," I said, remembering

suddenly. "But, look here, it's the chance of a lifetime for you.

You can tell 'em all that----"

But he was trotting off to the pavilion.

"Can anybody lend me some gloves?" he asked. "They want me to keep

wicket. Thing I've never done in my life. Of course I always field

cover in the ordinary way. Thanks awfully. Sure you don't mind?

Don't suppose I shall stop a ball though."

"Henry," I called, "you're starting that end. Arrange the field,

will you? I'll go cover. You're sure to want one."

Their first batsman was an old weather-beaten villager called George.

We knew his name was George because the second ball struck him in the

stomach and his partner said, "Stay there, George," which seemed to

be George's idea too. We learnt at lunch that once, in the eighties

or so, he had gone in first with Lord Hawke (which put him on a level

with that player), and that he had taken first ball (which put him

just above the Yorkshireman).

There the story ended, so far as George was concerned; and indeed it

was enough. Why seek to inquire if George took any other balls

besides the first?

In our match, however, he took the second in the place that I

mentioned, the third on the back of the neck, the fourth on the

elbow, and the fifth in the original place; while the sixth, being

off the wicket, was left there. Nearly every batsman had some pet

stroke, and we soon saw that George's stroke was the leg-bye. His

bat was the second line of defence, and was kept well in the block.

If the ball escaped the earthwork in front, there was always a chance

that it would be brought up by the bat. Once, indeed, a splendid

ball of Henry's which came with his arm and missed George's legs,

snicked the bat, and went straight into the wicket-keeper's hands.

The editor, however, presented his compliments, and regretted that he

was unable to accept the enclosed, which he accordingly returned with

many thanks.

There was an unwritten law that George could not be l.b.w. I cannot

say how it arose--possibly from a natural coyness on George's part

about the exact significance of the "l." Henry, after appealing for

the best part of three overs, gave it up, and bowled what he called

"googlies" at him. This looked more hopeful, because a googly seems

in no way to be restricted as to the number of its bounces, and at

each bounce it had a chance of doing something. Unfortunately it

never did George. Lunch came and the score was thirty-seven--George

having compiled in two hours a masterly nineteen; eighteen off the

person, but none the less directly due to him.

"We must think of a plan of campaign at lunch," said Henry. "It's

hopeless to go on like this."

"Does George drink?" I asked anxiously. It seemed the only chance.

But George didn't. And the score was thirty seven for five, which is

a good score for the wicket.

V. AT THE WICKETS

At lunch I said: "I have just had a wire from the Surrey committee to

say that I may put myself on to bowl."

"That is good hearing," said Henry.

"Did they hear?" asked Gerald anxiously, looking over at the

Chartleigh team.

"You may think you're very funny, but I'll bet you a--a--anything you

like that I get George out."

"All right," said Gerald. "I'll play you for second wicket down, the

loser to go in last."

"Done," I said, "and what about passing the salad now?"

After lunch the editor took me on one side and said: "I don't like

it. I don't like it at all."

"Then why did you have so much?" I asked.

"I mean the wicket. It's dangerous. I am not thinking of myself so

much as of----"

"As of the reading public?"

"Quite so."

"You think you--you would be missed in Fleet Street--just at first?"

"You are not putting the facts too strongly. I was about to suggest

that I should be a 'did not bat.'"

"Oh! I see. Perhaps I ought to tell you that I was talking just now

to the sister of their captain."

The editor looked interested.

"About the pad of the gardener?" he said.

"About you. She said--I give you her own words--'Who is the tall,

handsome man keeping wicket in a M.C.C. cap?' So I said you were a

well-known county player, as she would see when you went in to bat."

The editor shook my hand impressively.

"Thank you very much," he said. "I shall not fail her. What county

did you say?"

"Part of Flint. You know the little bit that's got into the wrong

county by mistake? That part. She had never heard of it; but I

assured her it had a little bit of yellow all to itself on the map.

Have you a pretty good eleven?"

The editor swore twice--once for me and once for Flint. Then we went

out into the field.

My first ball did for George. I followed the tactics of William the

First at the Battle of Hastings, 1066. You remember how he ordered

his archers to shoot into the air, and how one arrow fell and pierced

the eye of Harold, whereupon confusion and disaster arose. So with

George. I hurled one perpendicularly into the sky, and it dropped

(after a long time) straight upon the batsman. George followed it

with a slightly contemptuous eye... all the way....

All the way. Of course, I was sorry. We were all much distressed.

They told us afterwards he had never been hit in the eye before....

One gets new experiences.

George retired hurt. Not so much hurt as piqued, I fancy. He told

the umpire it wasn't bowling. Possibly. Neither was it batting. It

was just superior tactics.

The innings soon closed, and we had sixty-one to win, and, what

seemed more likely, fifty-nine and various other numbers to lose.

Sixty-one is a very unlucky number with me--oddly enough I have never

yet made sixty-one; like W.G. Grace, who had never made ninety-three.

My average this season is five, which is a respectable number. As

Bolton pointed out--if we each got five to-day, and there were six

extras, we should win. I suppose if one plays chess a good deal one

thinks of these things.

Harold, I mean George, refused to field, so I nobly put myself in

last and substituted for him. This was owing to an argument as to

the exact wording of my bet with Gerald.

"You said you'd get him out," said Gerald.

"I mean 'out of the way,' 'out of the field,' 'out of----'"

"I meant 'out' according to the laws of cricket. There are nine

ways. Which was yours, I should like to know?"

"Obstructing the ball."

"There you are."

I shifted my ground.

"I didn't say I'd get him out," I explained. "I said I'd get him.

Those were my very words. 'I will get George.' Can you deny that I

got him?"

"Even if you said that, which you didn't, the common construction

that one puts upon the phrase is----"

"If you are going to use long words like that," I said, "I must refer

you to my solicitor Bolton."

Whereupon Bolton took counsel's opinion, and reported that he could

not advise me to proceed in the matter. So Gerald took second

wicket, and I fielded.

However, one advantage of fielding was that I saw the editor's

innings from start to finish at the closest quarters. He came in at

the end of the first over, and took guard for "left hand round the

wicket."

"Would you give it me?" he said to Bolton. "These country

umpires.... Thanks. And what's that over the wicket? Thanks."

He marked two places with the bail.

"How about having it from here?" I suggested at mid-on. "It's quite

a good place and we're in a straight line with the church."

The editor returned the bail, and held up his bat again.

"That 'one-leg' all right? Thanks."

He was proceeding to look round the field when a gentle voice from

behind him said: "If you wouldn't mind moving a bit, sir, I could

bowl."

"Oh, is it over?" said the editor airily, trying to hide his

confusion. "I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon."

Still he had certainly impressed the sister of their captain, and it

was dreadful to think of the disillusionment that might follow at any

moment. However, as it happened, he had yet another trick up his

sleeve. Bolton hit a ball to cover, and the editor, in the words of

the local paper, "most sportingly sacrificed his wicket when he saw

that his partner had not time to get back. It was a question,

however, whether there was ever a run possible."

Which shows that the reporter did not know of the existence of their

captain's sister.

When I came in, the score was fifty-one for nine, and Henry was still

in. I had only one ball to play, so I feel that I should describe it

in full. I have four good scoring strokes--the cut, the drive, the

hook and the glance. As the bowler ran up to the crease I decided to

cut the ball to the ropes. Directly, however, it left his hand, I

saw that it was a ball to hook, and accordingly I changed my attitude

to the one usually adopted for that stroke. But the ball came up

farther than I expected, so at the last moment I drove it hard past

the bowler. That at least was the idea. Actually, it turned out to

be a beautiful glance shot to the leg boundary. Seldom, if ever, has

Beldam had such an opportunity for four action photographs on one

plate.

Henry took a sixer next ball, and so we won. And the rest of the

story of my team, is it not written in the journals of _The

Sportsman_ and _The Chartleigh Watchman_, and in the hearts of all

who were privileged to compose it? But how the editor took two jokes

I told him in the train, and put them in his paper (as his own), and

how Carey challenged the engine-driver to an eighteen-hole solitaire

match, and how ... these things indeed shall never be divulged.

EX NIHILO FIT MULTUM

I should like to explain just what happened to the ball. In the

first place it was of an irreproachable length, and broke very

sharply and cleverly from the leg. (The bowler, I am sure, will bear

me out in this.) Also it rose with great suddenness ... and, before

I had time to perfect any adequate system of defence, took me on the

knee, and from there rolled on to the off-stump. There was a

considerable amount of applause on the part of the field, due, no

doubt, to the feeling that a dangerous batsman had been dismissed

without scoring. I need hardly add that I did not resent this

appreciation.

What I really wished to say to the wicket-keeper was (1) that it was

the first fast wicket I had played on this summer; (2) that it was my

first nought this season, and, hang it, even Fry made noughts

sometimes; and (3) that personally I always felt that it didn't

matter what one made oneself so long as one's side was victorious.

What I actually said was shorter; but I expect the wicket-keeper

understood just as well. He seemed an intelligent fellow.

After that, I walked nine miles back to the pavilion.

The next man was brushing his hair in the dressing-room.

"What's happened?" he asked.

"Nothing," I said truthfully.

"But you're out, aren't you?"

"I mean that nothing has eventuated--accrued, as it were."

"Blob? Bad luck. Is my parting straight?"

"It curls a bit from leg up at the top, but it will do. Mind you

make some. I always feel that so long as one's side is

victorious----"

But he was gone. I brushed my own hair very carefully, lit a

cigarette, and went outside to the others. I always think that a

nought itself is nothing--the way one carries it off is everything.

A disaster, not only to himself but also to his side, should not make

a man indifferent to his personal appearance.

"Bad luck," said somebody. "Did it come back?"

"Very quickly. We both did."

"He wasn't breaking much when I was in," said some tactless idiot.

"Then why did you get out?" I retorted.

"L.b.w."

I moved quickly away from him, and sat next to a man who had yet to

go in.

"Bad luck," he said. "Second ball, wasn't it? I expect I shall do

the same."

I thought for a moment.

"What makes you think you will have a second?" I asked.

"To judge from the easy way in which those two are knocking the

bowling about, I sha'n't even have a first," he smiled.

I moved on again.

"Hallo," said a voice. "I saw you get out. How many did you make?"

"None," I said wearily.

"How many?"

I went and sat down next to him.

"Guess," I said.

"Oh, I can't."

"Well, think of a number."

"Yes."

"Double it. Divide by two. Take away the number you first thought

of. What does that make?"

"A hundred."

"You must have done it wrong," I said suspiciously.

"No, I am sure I didn't.... No, it still comes to a hundred."

"Well, then, I must have made a hundred," I said excitedly. "Are you

_sure_ you haven't made a mistake?"

"Quite."

"Then I'd better go and tell the scorer. He put me down a

blob--silly ass."

"He's a bad scorer, I know."

"By the way," I said, as I got up, "what number did you think of?"

"Well, it's like this. When you asked me to guess what you had made

I instinctively thought of blob, only I didn't like to say so. Then

when you began that number game I started with a hundred--it's such

an easy number. Double--two hundred. Divided by two--one hundred.

Take away the number you first thought of--that's blob, and you have

a hundred left. Wasn't that right?"

"You idiot," I said angrily. "Of course it wasn't."

"Well, don't get sick about it. We all make mistakes."

"Sick, I'm not sick. Only just for the moment.... I really

thought.... Well, I shall never be so near a century again."

At lunch I sat next to one of their side.

"How many did you make?" he asked.

"Not very many," I said.

"How many?"

"Oh, hardly any. None at all, practically."

"How many actually?"

"_And_ actually," I said. ("Fool.")

After lunch a strange man happened to be talking to me.

"And why did _you_ get out?" he asked.

It was a silly question and deserved a silly answer. Besides, I was

sick of it all by this time.

"Point's moustache put me off," I said.

"What was wrong with Point's moustache?"

"It swerved the wrong way."

"I was fielding point," he said.

"I'm very sorry. But if you had recognised me, you wouldn't have

asked why I got out, and if I had recognised you I shouldn't have

told you. So let's forgive and forget."

I hoped that the subject was really closed this time. Of course, I

knew that kind friends and relations would ask me on the morrow how

many I had made, but for that day I wanted no more of it. Yet, as it

happened, I reopened the subject myself.

For with five minutes to play their ninth wicket fell. Mid-off

sauntered over towards me.

"Just as well we didn't stay in any longer."

"That's _just_ what I thought," I said triumphantly, "all along."

AN AVERAGE MAN

Of Tomkins as a natural cricketer

It frequently has been remarked--that IF

He'd had more opportunities of bowling,

And rather more encouragement in batting,

And IF his averages, so disclosed,

Batting and bowling, had been interchanged;

And IF the field as usually set

Contained some post (at the pavilion end)

Whose presence rather than a pair of hands

Was called for; then, before the season finished,

Tomkins would certainly have played for Kent.

All this, however, is beside the mark.

Just now I wish to hymn the glorious day

(Ignored by those who write the almanacs,

Unnoticed by the calendar compilers),

That Wednesday afternoon, twelve months ago

When Tomkins raised his average to two.

Thanks to an interval of accidents

(As "Tomkins did not bat"--and "not out 0,"

But this more rarely) Tomkins' average

Had long remained at 1.3.

(Though Tomkins, sacrificing truth to pride,

Or both to euphony, left out the dot--

Left out the little dot upon the three,

Only employing it to justify

A second three to follow on the first.

Thus, if a stranger asked his average

Tomkins would answer "One point thirty-three"--

Nor lay the stress unduly on the "one" ...).

A curious thing is custom! There are men--

Plum Warner is, of course, a case in point--

Who cannot bat unless they go in first.

Others, as Hayes and Denton, have their place

First wicket down; while Number Six or so

Is suited best to Jessop. As for Tomkins

His place was always one above the Byes,

And three above the Wides. So Custom willed.

Upon this famous Wednesday afternoon

Wickets had fallen fast before the onslaught

Of one who had, as Euclid might have put it,

No length, or break, but only pace; and pace

Had been too much for nine of them already.

Then entered Tomkins the invincible.

Took guard as usual, "just outside the leg,"

Looked round the field, and mentally decided

To die--or raise his average to two.

Whereon--for now the bowler was approaching,

He struck a scientific attitude,

Advanced the left leg firmly down the pitch,

And swung his bat along the line AB

(See Ranjitsinhji's famous book of cricket).

And when the bat and leg were both at B

(Having arrived there more or less together),

Then Tomkins, with his usual self-effacement,

Modestly closed his eyes, and left the rest

To Providence and Ranjy and the bowler

(Forming a quorum); two at least of whom

Resolved that he should neatly glide the ball

Somewhere between the first and second slips.

So Tomkins did compile a chanceless two.

Once more the bowler rushed upon the crease,

While Tomkins made a hasty calculation

(Necessitating use of decimals)

And found his average was 1.5.

So lustily he smote and drove the ball

Loftily over long stop's head for one;

Which brought the decimal to seventy-five,

And Tomkins, puffing, to the other end.

Then, feeling that the time for risks was come,

He rolled his sleeves up, blew upon his hands,

And played back to a yorker, and was bowled.

Every position has its special charm.

You go in first and find as a reward

The wicket at its best; you go in later

And find the fielders slack, the bowling loose.

Tomkins, who went in just above the Byes,

Found one of them had slipped into his score.

'Tis wise to take the good the gods provide you--

And Tomkins has an average of two.

SMALL GAMES

PHYSICAL CULTURE

"Why don't you sit up?" said Adela at dinner, suddenly prodding me in

the back. Adela is old enough to take a motherly interest in my

figure, and young enough to look extremely pretty while doing so.

"I always stoop at meals," I explained; "it helps the circulation.

My own idea."

"But it looks so bad. You ought----"

"Don't improve me," I begged,

"No wonder you have----"

"Hush! I haven't. I got a bullet on the liver in the campaign of

'03, due to over-smoking, and sometimes it hurts me a little in the

cold weather. That's all."

"Why don't you try the Hyperion?"

"I will. Where is it?"

"It isn't anywhere; you buy it."

"Oh, I thought you dined at it. What do you buy it for?"

"It's one of those developers with elastics and pulleys and so on.

Every morning early, for half-an-hour before breakfast----"

"You _are_ trying to improve me," I said suspiciously.

"But they are such good things," went on Adela earnestly. "They

really do help to make you beautiful----"

"I _am_ beautiful."

"Well, much more beautiful. And strong----"

"Are you being simply as tactful as you can be?"

"--and graceful."

"It isn't as though you were actually a relation," I protested.

Adela continued, full of her ideas:

"It would do you so much good, you know. Would you promise me to use

it every day if I sent you mine?"

"Why don't you want yours any more now? Are you perfect now?"

"You can easily hook it to the wall----"

"I suppose," I reflected, "there is a limit of beauty beyond which it

is dangerous to go. After that, either the thing would come off the

hook, or----"

"Well," said Adela suddenly, "aren't I looking well?"

"You're looking radiant," I said appreciatively; "but it may only be

because you're going to marry Billy next month."

She smiled and blushed. "Well, I'll send it to you," she said. "And

you try it for a week, and then tell me if you don't feel better.

Oh, and don't do all the exercises to begin with; start with three or

four of the easy ones."

"Of course," I said.

* * * * * * *

I undid the wrappings eagerly, took off the lid of the box, and was

confronted with (apparently) six pairs of braces. I shook them out

of the box and saw I had made a mistake. It was one pair of braces

for Magog. I picked it up, and I knew that I was in the presence of

the Hyperion. In five minutes I had screwed a hook into the bedroom

wall and attached the beautifier. Then I sat on the edge of the bed

and looked at it.

There was a tin plate, fastened to the top, with the word "LADIES" on

it. I got up, removed it with a knife, and sat down again.

Everything was very dusty, and I wondered when Adela had last

developed herself.

By-and-by I went into the other room to see if I had overlooked

anything. I found on the floor a chart of exercises, and returned

triumphantly with it.

There were thirty exercises altogether, and the chart gave

(1) A detailed explanation of how to do each particular exercise;

(2) A photograph of a lady doing it.

"After all," I reassured myself, after the first bashful glance, "it

is Adela who has thrust this upon me; and she must have known." So I

studied it.

Nos. 10, 15 and 28 seemed the easiest; I decided to confine myself to

them. For the first of these you strap yourself in at the waist,

grasp the handles, and fall slowly backwards until your head touches

the floor--all the elastic cords being then at full stretch. When I

had got very slowly halfway down, an extra piece of elastic which had

got hitched somewhere came suddenly into play, and I did the rest of

the journey without a stop, finishing up sharply against the towel

horse. The chart had said, "Inhale going down," and I was inhaling

hard at the moment that the towel horse and two damp towels spread

themselves over my face.

"So much for Exercise 10," I thought, as I got up. "I'll just get

the idea to-night, and then start properly to-morrow. Now for No.

15."

Somehow I felt instinctively that No. 15 would cause trouble. For

No. 15 you stand on the right foot, fasten the left foot to one of

the cords, and stretch it out as far as you can....

What--officially--you do then, I cannot say....

Some people can stand easily upon the right foot, when the left is

fastened to the wall ... others cannot ... it is a gift....

Having recovered from my spontaneous rendering of No. 15 I turned to

No. 28. This one, I realised, was extremely important; I would do it

twelve times.

You begin by lying flat on the floor, roped in at the waist, and with

your hands (grasping the elastic cords) held straight up in the air.

The tension on your waist is then extreme, but on your hands only

moderate. Then, taking a deep breath, you pull your arms slowly out

until they lie along the floor. The tension becomes terrific, the

strain on every part of you is immense. While I lay there, taking a

deep breath before relaxing, I said to myself, "The strain will be

too much for me."

I was wrong. It was too much for the hook. The hook whizzed out,

everything flew at me at once, and I remembered no more....

As I limped into bed, I trod heavily upon something sharp. I

shrieked and bent down to see what had bitten me. It was a tin plate

bearing the words "LADIES."

* * * * * * *

"Well?" said Adela, a week later.

I looked at her for a long time.

"When did you last use the Hyperion?" I asked.

"About a year ago."

"Ah! ... You don't remember the chart that went with it?"

"Not well. Except, of course, that each exercise was arranged for a

particular object according to what you wanted."

"Exactly. So I discovered yesterday. It was in very small type, and

I missed it at first."

"Well, how many did you do?"

"I limited myself to Exercises 10, 15, and 28. Do you happen to

remember what those were for?"

"Not particularly."

"No. Well, I started with No. 10. No. 10, you may recall, is one of

the most perilous. I nearly died over No. 10. And when I had been

doing it for a week, I discovered what its particular object was."

"What?"

"'_To round the forearm!_' Yes, madam," I said bitterly, "I have

spent a week of agony ... and I have rounded one forearm."

"Why didn't you try another?"

"I did. I tried No. 15. Six times in the pursuit of No. 15 have I

been shot up to the ceiling by the left foot ... and what for, Adela?

'_To arch the instep!_' Look at my instep! Why should I want to

arch it?"

"I wish I could remember which chart I sent you," said Adela,

wrinkling her brow.

"It was the wrong one," I said....

There was a long silence.

"Oh," said Adela suddenly, "you never told me about No. 28."

"Pardon me," I said, "I cannot bear to speak of 28."

"Why, was it even more unsuitable than the other two?"

"I found, when I had done it six times, that its object was stated to

be, '_To remove double chin._' That, however, was not the real

effect. And so I crossed out the false comment and wrote the true

one in its place."

"And what is that?" asked Adela.

"'_To remove the hook,_'" I said gloomily.

CROQUET

PROLOGUE

"I hear you're very good at croquet," said my hostess.

"Oh, well," I said modestly. (The fact is I can beat them all at

home.)

"We have the North Rutland champion staying with us. He's very keen

on a game. Now then, how can we manage?"

This was terrible. I must put it off somehow.

"_Is_ there a north to Rutland," I began argumentatively. "I always

thought----"

"Yes, I see. He shall play with Jane against you and Miss Middleton.

By the way, let me introduce you all."

We bowed to each other for a bit, and then I had another shock. The

N.R. champion's mallet was bound with brass at each end (in case he

wanted to hit backwards suddenly) and had a silver plate on it.

Jane's had the brass only. It was absurd that they should play

together.

I drew Miss Middleton on one side.

"I say," I began nervously, "I'm frightfully sorry, but I quite

forgot to bring my mallet. Will it matter very much?"

"I haven't one either."

"You know, when my man was packing my bag, I particularly said to

him, 'Now, don't forget to put in a mallet.' He said, 'Shall I put

the spare one in too, sir, because the best one's sprung a bit?'"

"Oh, I've never had one of my own. I suppose when one is really

good----"

"Well, to tell you the truth, I've never had one either. We're

fairly in for it now."

"Never mind, we'll amuse ourselves somehow, I expect."

"Oh, I'm quite looking forward to it."

CHAPTER I

They kicked off from the summer-house end, and, after jockeying for

the start a bit, the N.R. champion got going. He went very slowly

but very surely. I watched anxiously for ten minutes, expecting my

turn every moment. After a quarter of an hour I raised my hat and

moved away.

"Shall we sit down?" I said to Miss Middleton.

"We shall be in the way if we sit down here, sha'n't we?"

"Outside that chalk line we're safe?"

"I--I suppose so."

We moved outside and sat down on the grass.

"I never even had a chalk line," I said mournfully.

"It's much more fun without."

"You know," I went on, "I can beat them all at home. Why even

Wilfrid----"

"It's just the same with me," said Miss Middleton. "Hilda did win

once by a frightful fluke, but----"

"But this is quite different. At home it would be considered jolly

bad form to go on all this time."

"One would simply go in and leave them," said Miss Middleton.

"You know, it's awful fun at home. The lawn goes down in terraces,

and if you hit the other person's ball hard enough you can get it

right down to the bottom; and it takes at least six to get back on

the green again."

Miss Middleton gurgled to herself.

"We've got a stream ... round our lawn," she said, in gasps. "It's

such a joke ... and once ... when Hilda..."

CHAPTER II

"May I call you 'Mary?'" I said; "we're still here."

"Well, we have known each other a long time, certainly," said Miss

Middleton. "I think you might."

"Thanks very much."

"What hoop is he at?"

"He's just half-way."

"I suppose, when he's finished, then, Jane does it all?"

"It practically comes to that. I believe, as a matter of form, I am

allowed a shot in between."

"That won't make any difference, will it?"

"No...."

"It's awfully hot, isn't it?"

"Yes.... Do you bicycle much?"

"No.... Do you?"

"No. I generally sleep in the afternoons."

"Much the best thing to do. Good-night."

"Good-night."

CHAPTER III

"Wake up," I said. "You've been asleep for hours. Jane is playing

now."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Mary, still with her eyes closed. "Then I

missed your turn. Was it a good one?"

"Absolutely splendid. I had a very long shot, and hit the champion.

Then I took my mallet in both hands, brought it well over the

shoulder--are you allowed to do that, by the way?"

"Yes, it's hockey where you mustn't."

"And croqueted him right down to the house--over beds, through

bushes, across paths--the longest ball I've ever driven."

"I hope you didn't make him very cross. You see, he may not be used

to our game."

"Cross? My dear girl, he was fairly chuckling with delight. Told me

I'd missed the rest of my turn. It seems that if you go over two

beds, and across more than one path, you miss the rest of your turn.

Did you know that?"

"I suppose I did really, but I'd forgotten."

"And here I am again. Jane will be even longer. He's lying on the

grass, and taking sights for her just now.... Why didn't you answer

my last letter?"

CHAPTER IV

"It's this passion for games," I said, waking up suddenly, "which has

made us Englishmen what we are. Here we have a hot July afternoon,

when all Nature is at peace, and the foreigner is taking his siesta.

And what do we do? How do we English men and women spend this hot

afternoon? Why, immediately after lunch, in one case even before the

meal has been digested, we rush off to take part in some violent game

like croquet. Hour after hour the play goes on relentlessly; there

is no backing out on our part, no pleading for just five minutes in

which to get our wind. No, we bear our part manfully, and---- Are

you awake by any chance, or am I wasting all this?"

"Of course I'm awake," said Mary, opening her eyes.

"What years I have known you! Do you remember those days when we

used to paddle together--the mixed paddling at Brighton?"

"Ah, yes. And your first paint-box."

"And your doll----"

"And the pony----"

"And the--good-night."

"G'night."

CHAPTER XVIII

"But how absurd," said Mary, "when we've only just met."

"Oh, but come; it was about two years ago that you let me call you

'Mary.'"

"True," said Mary thoughtfully.

"And you can't say we aren't suited to one another. We both play

without the chalk line."

"So we do. Yet ... Oh, I can't say all at once. Give me a little

time."

"I'll give you three of Jane's hoops. That's about six months."

CHAPTER XX

"Twenty-eight," said the North Rutland champion. "That's what I won

the championship by, I remember."

"It's a good winning score," I said. "Do they play much in North

Rutland?"

"I'm afraid it's been very slow for you and Miss Middleton," said

Jane.

"Not exactly slow," I said.

"We've been talking a lot of nonsense," explained Miss Middleton.

"Not exactly nonsense," said I.

"Oh, it was," said Miss Middleton, "you know it was."

"I suppose it was," I sighed. "Well, we'll try again to-morrow."

"Right," said the champion. "But I shall use my other mallet."

GARDENING

There may be gardeners who can appear to be busy all the year

round--doing even in the winter their little bit under glass. But

for myself I wait reverently until the twenty-second of March is

here. Then, spring having officially arrived, I step out on to the

lawn, and summon my head-gardener.

"James," I say, "the winter is over at last. What have we got in

that big brown-looking bed in the middle there?"

"Well, sir," he says, "we don't seem to have anything, do we, like?"

"Perhaps there's something down below that hasn't pushed through yet?"

"Maybe there is."

"I wish you knew more about it," I say angrily; "I want to bed out

the macaroni there. Have we got a spare bed, with nothing going on

underneath?"

"I don't know, sir. Shall I dig 'em up and have a look?"

"Yes, perhaps you'd better," I say.

Between ourselves, James is a man of no initiative. He has to be

told everything.

However, mention of him brings me to my first rule for young

gardeners--

Never sow Spring Onions and New Potatoes in the

same bed

I did this by accident last year. The fact is, when the onions were

given to me I quite thought they were young daffodils; a mistake

anyone might make. Of course, I don't generally keep daffodils and

potatoes together; but James swore that the hard round things were

tulip bulbs. It is perfectly useless to pay your head-gardener

half-a-crown a week if he doesn't know the difference between

potatoes and tulip bulbs. Well, anyhow, there they were in the

herbaceous border together, and they grew up side by side; the onions

getting stronger every day and the potatoes more sensitive. At last,

just when they were ripe for picking, I found that the young onions

had actually brought tears to the eyes of the potatoes--to such an

extent that the latter were too damp for baking or roasting, and had

to be mashed. Now, as everybody knows, mashed potatoes are beastly.

THE RHUBARB BORDER

gives me more trouble than all the rest of the garden. I started it

a year ago with the idea of keeping the sun off the young carnations.

It acted excellently, and the complexion of the flowers was improved

tenfold. Then one day I discovered James busily engaged in pulling

up the rhubarb.

"What are you doing?" I cried. "Do you want the young carnations to

go all brown?"

"I was going to send some in to the cook," he grumbled.

"To the cook! What do you mean? Rhubarb isn't a vegetable."

"No, it's a fruit."

I looked at James anxiously. He had a large hat on, and the sun

couldn't have got to the back of his neck.

"My dear James," I said, "I don't pay you half-a-crown a week for

being funny. Perhaps we had better make it two shillings in future."

However, he persisted in his theory that in the spring people stewed

rhubarb in tarts and ate it!

Well, I have discovered since that this is actually so. People

really do grow it in their gardens, not with the idea of keeping the

sun off the young carnations but under the impression that it is a

fruit. Consequently, I have found it necessary to adopt a firm line

with my friends' rhubarb. On arriving at any house for a visit, the

first thing I say to my host is, "May I see your rhubarb bed? I have

heard such a lot about it."

"By all means," he says, feeling rather flattered, and leads the way

into the garden.

"What a glorious sunset," I say, pointing to the west.

"Isn't it," he says, turning round; and then I surreptitiously drop a

pint of weed-killer on the bed.

Next morning I get up early and paint the roots of the survivors with

iodine.

Once my host, who for some reason had got up early too, discovered me.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Just painting the roots with iodine," I said, "to prevent the

rhubarb falling out."

"To prevent what?"

"To keep the green fly away," I corrected myself. "It's the new

French intensive system."

But he was suspicious, and I had to leave two or three stalks

untreated. We had those for lunch that day. There was only one

thing for a self-respecting man to do. I obtained a large plateful

of the weed and emptied the sugar basin and the cream jug over it.

Then I took a mouthful of the pastry, gave a little start, and said,

"Oh, is this rhubarb? I'm sorry, I didn't know." Whereupon I pushed

my plate away and started on the cheese.

ASPARAGUS

Asparagus wants watching very carefully. It requires to be tended

like a child. Frequently, I wake up in the middle of the night and

wonder if James has remembered to put the hot-water bottle in the

asparagus bed. Whenever I get up to look I find that he has

forgotten.

He tells me to-day that he is beginning to think that the things

which are coming up now are not asparagus after all, but young

hyacinths. This is very annoying. I am inclined to fancy that James

is not the man he was. For the sake of his reputation in the past I

hope he is not.

POTTING OUT

I have spent a busy morning potting out the nasturtiums. We have

them in three qualities--mild, medium and full. Nasturtiums are

extremely peppery flowers, and take offence so quickly that the

utmost tact is required to pot them successfully. In a general way

all the red or reddish flowers should be potted as soon as they are

old enough to stand it, but it is considered bad form among

horticulturists to pot the white.

James has been sowing the roses. I wanted all the pink ones in one

bed, and all the yellow ones in another, and so on; but James says

you never can tell for certain what colour a flower is going to be

until it comes up. Of course, any fool could tell then.

"You should go by the picture on the outside of the packet," I said.

"They're very misleading," said James.

"Anyhow, they must be all brothers in the same packet."

"You might have a brother with red hair," says James.

I hadn't thought of that.

GRAFTING

Grafting is when you try short approaches over the pergola in

somebody's else's garden, and break the best tulip. You mend it with

a ha'penny stamp and hope that nobody will notice; at any rate not

until you have gone away on the Monday. Of course in your own garden

you never want to graft.

I hope at some future time to be allowed--even encouraged--to refer

to such things as the most artistic way to frame cucumbers, how to

stop tomatoes blushing (the hom[oe]opathic method of putting them

next to the French beans is now discredited), and spring fashions in

fox gloves. But for the moment I have said enough. The great thing

to remember in gardening is that flowers, fruits and vegetables alike

can only be cultivated with sympathy. Special attention should be

given to backward and delicate plants. They should be encouraged to

make the most of themselves. Never forget that flowers, like

ourselves, are particular about the company they keep. If a hyacinth

droops in the celery bed, put it among the pansies.

But above all, mind, a firm hand with the rhubarb.

GOLF

CHAPTER I

The documents in the case are these:

_Him to Me_

"Come and play golf on Thursday. What is your handicap? I expect

you will be too good for me."

_Me to Him_

"MY GOOD THOMAS,--Don't be silly. I will play you at cricket,

tennis, lawn tennis, football (both codes), croquet, poker-patience,

high diving and here-we-go-round-the-mulberry-bush. If you insist, I

will take you on at prisoners' base and billiards. Moreover I can

dance the _pavane_. Yours ever,

"ADOLPHUS

"_P.S._--Anyhow, I haven't any clubs."

_Him to Me_

"MY DEAR ASS,--I gather that you aren't a golfer; well, why not begin

on Thursday? There will be nobody else playing probably. Meet me at

Victoria eleven-five. My brother is away, and I will lend you his

clubs."

_Me to Him_

(Telegram)

"Is your brother out of England? Wire reply."

_Him to Me_

"Yes. Sicily."

_Me to Him_

"Right you are then."

CHAPTER II

"You know," I said to Thomas in the train, "I have played a little on

a very small island off the coast of Scotland, but it was such a very

small island that we never used a driver at all, or--what's that

other thing called?--a brassy. We should have been into the sea in

no time. But I rather fancy myself with a putter."

"You might go round with a putter to-day."

"I might, but I sha'n't. I expect to use the wooden clubs with great

ease and dexterity. And I think you will find that I can do some

business with the mashie. What's a niblick?"

"The thing you get out of bunkers with."

"Then I sha'n't want that."

CHAPTER III

The fateful moment arrived. Thomas presented me with a ball called

the Colonel, and a caddie offered me Thomas's brother's driver. He

also asked me what sort of tee I should like.

I leant upon my club and looked at him. Then I turned to Thomas.

"Our young friend Hector," I said, "is becoming technical. Will you

explain?"

"Well, do you want a high or a low one?"

"I want to hit this Colonel ball very hard in the direction of that

flag. What do you recommend?"

"Well, that's just as you----"

"I think a medium one. Slow to medium."

The preliminaries being arranged, I proceeded to address the ball.

My own instinct was to take the address as read and get to business

as soon as possible, but in the presence of an expert like Hector I

did not dare to omit the trimmings. As it was, after every waggle I

felt less and less like hitting the Colonel. When at last I did let

fly it was with feelings of relief that I discovered, on returning an

eye to the spot, that the tee was indeed empty. I shaded my eyes and

gazed into the middle distance.

"No," said Thomas, "it's more to the right." He indicated a spot in

the foreground, about ten yards E.N.E. "There you are."

"That isn't _my_ ball."

"Yes, sir," said Hector, grinning.

"May I have it back?"

Thomas laughed and smote his own into the blue. "You go on from

there," he said.

"I'm still aiming at the same flag?"

"Go on, you ass."

I went on. The ball again rolled ten yards to the east.

"I don't know why we're going in this direction," I said. "If I get

much further east I shall have to send back Bartlett. You know, I

don't believe the Colonel is taking this seriously. He doesn't seem

to me to be trying at all. Has he ever been round the course before?"

"Never. He's quite new to it."

"There you are. He'll come down at the ditch for a certainty."

I played my third. A third time we went ten yards to the east--well,

perhaps with a touch of north in it again. And this time Hector gave

a sudden snort of laughter.

I leant upon my club, and stared him into gravity. Then I took

Thomas by the coat and led him on one side.

"There are, Thomas," I said, "other things than golf."

"There are," he agreed.

"A man may fail temporarily at the game and yet not be wholly

despicable."

"True."

"He may, for instance, be able to dance the _pavane_ with grace and

distinction."

"Quite so."

"Well then, _will_ you take this giggling child away and explain to

him that I am not such an ass as I appear? Tell him that the

intellectuals of Brook Green think highly of my mental powers.

Assure him that in many of the best houses at Wandsworth Common I am

held to be an amusing raconteur. Remind him of my _villanelle_ 'To

Autumn.' For heaven's sake make him understand that my reputation

does not stand or fall with my ability to use this brassy thing. I'm

not a golf professional."

Thomas allowed himself to smile. "I will tell him," he said, "that

you are not a golf professional."

We veered right round to the east with my fourth and then I became

desperate.

"Why," I shouted, "do I hit the ball with a ridiculous club like

this? I could send it farther with a cricket bat. I could push it

straighter with a billiard cue. Where's that bag? I am going to

have a lucky dip."

I dipped, and came up with what Thomas called a cleek. "Now then," I

said. I didn't stop to address the Colonel, I simply lashed at him.

He flew along the ground at a terrific pace.

"Well kept down," said Thomas admiringly.

"By Jove!" I cried, "that's never going to stop. See how he flies

along ... now he breasts the slope ... look, he is taking the water

jump.... Ah, he has crossed his legs, he's down."

"This," I said to Thomas as we walked after the Colonel, "is golf. A

glorious game."

"What nonsense," I said to Thomas, "they put in comic papers about

golf. All that about digging up the turf! ... and missing the ball!

... and breaking the clubs! I mean, I simply don't see how one

_could_! Let's see, I've played four, haven't I?"

"Five," said Thomas. "What I am wondering," he added, "is why you

should have been afraid of using any club in your small island off

the coast of Scotland."

CHAPTER IV

_Twenty Strokes After_

"The green, the green," I shouted joyfully, in the manner of the

ancient Greeks, though I was only on the edge of it.

"Go on," said Thomas.

I took a careful aim and put the white down.

"You see," I said carelessly, leaning on my putter.

STUMP CRICKET

April will soon be here," said Miss Middleton, with a sigh of

happiness.

"Bless it," I agreed. "My favourite month. Twelve," I added

conversationally, "is my lucky number, and Thursday the day of the

week on which I do least work. When next the twelfth of April falls

on a Thursday, which may not be for centuries, look out. Something

terrific will happen."

"It's about now that one begins to wonder if one is in form, or

likely to be."

"Just about now," I agreed. "I always say that when the draw is

announced for the semi-finals of the English Cup, in which, of

course, I take not the slightest interest whatever, and in fact

hardly know what teams are left in for it, though I must say I hope

Southampton wins this year, because, after all, Fry did play for them

once, but they'll have a bit of a job to beat the Wolves you

know--and then there's Newcastle and Fulham after that, and of

course, you can't be ..."

"I'm tired of that sentence," said Miss Middleton.

"So was I. I only wanted to make it clear that I have no use for

these spectacular gladiatorial combats. Give me cricket, the game

of----"

Miss Middleton did not appear to be listening.

"Do you bowl as fast and as good a length as you talk?" she asked

thoughtfully.

"No. More swerve perhaps. And I bowl with my head a good deal."

"I see. Quite different. Well, then, will you coach me this spring?

Do, there's a dear."

"I should love to. I know all the things to say."

She got up excitedly.

"Come along then. I've got the rippingest bat. But you must promise

not to bowl too fast."

I had said that I knew all the things to say, but as a matter of fact

there is only one thing to say: "You should have come out to 'er,

sir." (Or, I suppose, in Miss Middleton's case, "You should have

come out to him, madam.") It's a silly remark to make, because it is

just what one is always doing. At school I could come out to

anything that was straight and not too high; the difficulty lay in

staying in. Nobody ever told me how to do that.

Miss Middleton led the way to a walled-in tennis lawn, which lay next

to the broccoli tops and things, and was kept away from it by only

six feet of brick. If it had simply been a question of cabbage I

should have said nothing, but there would be grapes there too.

"I know," said Miss Middleton. "But we must play against a wall.

Don't bowl too much to leg."

I hadn't bowled since October the Fourth. The first post-October

ball was a trifle over-pitched, and a little too much to the right.

All the same I was just saying, "You should have come out to that

one," when there was a crash from the direction of long-on.

"By Jove, I didn't know you were so good. Was that the grapes?"

"How awful! Yes. It simply seemed to fly off the bat. I did ask

you not to bowl there, didn't I?"

She looked so penitent that I had to comfort her.

"It's all right," I said consolingly. "I had a man there. You would

have been out all the way. Besides," I went on, "a little air will

do the grapes good. They stay all the time in one hot room, and then

when they go out into the cold, they don't muffle up, and the natural

consequence is---- Or am I thinking of influenza?"

"Never mind. We must remember not to do it again, that's all. Give

me some to cut."

There are several ways of cutting. For myself, I was taught to cut

"square" with the left leg across and "late" with the right, the

consequence being that I can do neither. W.G. (to work downwards)

generally uses the fore-arm for the stroke, Ranji the wrist. Miss

Middleton keeps both feet together and puts her whole body into it;

and the direction in which the ball travels is towards long-on.

There was another crash.

"Golf is your game," I said admiringly. "You lay it dead on the

greenhouse every time."

"I say, what _shall_ we do? Father will be furious."

I looked at my watch.

"I can just catch the three-twenty-five," I said.

"Oh, don't be a coward, when it's all your fault for bowling so

badly."

"Perhaps the glass is insured," I suggested. "It is generally."

"It's insured against hail," she said doubtfully.

I looked at the sky. It was one of the most beautiful blues I have

seen.

"No," said Miss Middleton sadly.

"It will be a point for lawyers to argue, I fancy, what is actually

meant by hail. You would probably define it at once as aqueous

vapour cooled down in the atmosphere to the freezing point of water."

"I don't know. Perhaps I should."

"But 'hail' here obviously has a wider significance. I take it to

mean 'anything that descends suddenly from the clouds.' I haven't

'Williams on Real Property' with me, but----"

"Come on," said Miss Middleton, "let's say it does mean that. And

could you, _please_, keep them a bit more on the off?"

"It's no good my keeping them there if you don't."

The worst of coaching--I speak now as an expert--is that it is so

difficult to know what to say when a lady whirls her bat twice round

her head, gives a little shriek, gets the ball on the knee, and says,

"What ought I to have done then?" The only answer I could think of

was "Not that."

"I thought you knew all about coaching," she said scornfully.

"But, you see, it depends on what you were wanting to do," I said

meekly. "If it was a drive you should have come out to it more, and

if it was a cut you should have come down on it; while if it was a

Highland fling you lacked _abandon_, and if you were killing a

wasp----"

"A good coach would know what was the best thing to do with that

particular ball, wouldn't he? And that's just what he would tell

you."

"He wouldn't know," I said modestly. "You don't often meet that sort

of ball in good cricket."

"No, I suppose not. That's why I didn't know what to do, I expect.

You know I generally know exactly what to do, only I can't do it."

"Is that really so?" I cried excitedly. "Why, then, of course, you

ought to coach _me_!"

* * * * * * *

We had a very jolly afternoon. I fancy I shall be in some form this

year. Miss Middleton is one of the best bowlers I have seen, but I

brought off some beautiful shots. I wanted some tea badly afterwards.

"What glorious days we have now," said Miss Middleton's mother, as

she handed me a cup.

"Glorious," said Miss Middleton's father.

"H'm, yes," I said doubtfully. "But you know I'm afraid it won't

last. It's beginning to look rather like--like hail."

"Yes," said Miss Middleton. "We both thought so."

EXPLORING

Come, gather around, my 'earties, and listen

a while to me,

For I 'ave a yarn to spin you, a yarn of the

Polar Sea;

It's as true as I'm standing here, lads, as true as it

blows a gale,

That I was the first as nearly burst a-finding the

Great Big Nail--

As sworn to by Etukishook, Gaukrodger, J. C. Clegg,

Sir Fortescue Flannery, and the Cardinal

Merry del Val.

It was all of a parky morning that wunnerful fourth

of March,

When I put on a hextry weskit and made for the

Marble Arch;

So I sez good-bye to my country, "Lunnon," I sez,

"adoo!"

And I up and strode down the Edgware Road

athirsting to see it through,

Followed by Etukishook, Gaukrodger, J. C. Clegg,

Sir Fortescue Flannery, and the Cardinal

Merry del Val.

I 'adn't no blooming gum-drops, I 'adn't no polar

bears,

I 'adn't no sextant neither, but I thinks to myself,

"'Oo cares?"

And I waggled my watch-chain jaunty, which was

jewelled in every hole.

"I can always steer by my cumpas 'ere, it's pointing

straight to the Pole."

_So_ it is!" said Etukishook, Gaukrodger, J. C. Clegg,

Sir Fortescue Flannery, and the Cardinal

Merry del Val.

I walked for the 'ole of that morning, then I sez

to myself, "Old son,

This here is a dash-for-the-Pole like, and it's

darn little dash you've done."

So I enters an 'andy station, and I sez to the

man in the 'utch,

"'Ere, gimme a ticket as goes to Wick--no, a

first-return--'ow much?--

Ah, and five third singles for Etukishook, Gaukrodger,

J. C. Clegg, Sir Fortescue Flannery, and the

Cardinal Merry del Val."

We sailed from Wick to the norrard for 'undreds

of days and nights.

Till we came at last to the ice-floes and followed the

Northern Lights,

The Horroreo-boreo-balis, which it turned us all

'orrible pale,

And I sez to my men, "To-morrow and then we

shall land at the Great Big Nail."

"'Ooray!" said Etukishook, Gaukrodger, J. C. Clegg,

Sir Fortescue Flannery and the Cardinal Merry

del Val.

'Twas the cumpas as went and found it--it seemed

to have turned its head,

It would spin like mad for a minute and then it

would lay like dead;

It took on just like a wild thing, you'd almost 'a'

sworn it cried,

Till at last it shot through the glass and got right up

on its end and died.

"That _proves_ it," cried Etukishook, Gaukrodger,

J. C. Clegg, Sir Fortescue Flannery, and the

Cardinal Merry del Val.

We gave three cheers for ole England and we up

with the Union Jack,

And we plugged our pipes and we smoked

'em and we thought about getting back;

But a wunnerful pride so filled us as we sat on top

of the Ball,

That innocent tears (the first for years) rolled out

of the eyes of all.

Partikerlarly out of those of Etukishook, Gaukrodger,

J. C. Clegg, Sir Fortescue Flannery, and the

Cardinal Merry del Val.

Then I called for a pen and paper, and I wrote to

the King, "Dear King,

"I've found the Pole, and I'm tying a piece of it up

with string;

I'll send it round in the morning for your Majesty's

grace to see

Just drop me a wire, if you like it, sire, and I'll

collar the lot! _Signed_: Me.

_Witnesses_: Etukishook, Gaukrodger, J. C. Clegg, Sir

Fortescue Flannery and the Cardinal Merry

del Val."

So that's how it 'appened, my 'earties, no matter

what others may say.

(Did they _see_ the Pole? They didn't! That

_proves_ I 'ad took it away).

It's as true as I'm standing here, lads, as true as

_The Daily Mail_,

That I was the first as nearly burst a-finding the

Great Big Nail.

SHOPPING

"If you _should_ happen to be in Regent Street tomorrow at four" (ran

the assignation), "just where what's the name of the street comes

into it, and a lady in a very pretty new mauve coat and skirt bows to

you, raise your hat and say 'Crisis' and she will let you help her

with her shopping."

My guess at the name of the street was successful. I raised my hat

and said "Good-afternoon."

"But you had to say 'Crisis,'" said Miss Middleton. "That's the

password."

"I can't. I've sworn I'll never say it again. I took a most fearful

oath. Several people heard me taking it, and swooned."

"But how do I know you're the right one if you don't say it? Well, I

suppose I shall have to let you come. I've just lost mother; she

went in at the silver department and out at the art fabrics--like

people when they can't pay for their hansoms."

"Yes, that's bad. 'The accused, who appeared to feel her position

acutely, gave a false address.' What are you going to buy?"

"Well, I thought I'd just help you get _your_ presents first."

"I'm not giving any this Christmas. I gave a lot only a year ago."

"Oh, but haven't they paid you any wages since then?"

"Yes, a few trifling sums, only---- Quick, there's your mother!" I

pulled Miss Middleton hastily into the nearest shop and shut the door.

"What fun!" she said breathlessly. "Mother _loves_ hide-and-seek."

Mrs Middleton hurried past, covered with parcels, and dived into

another door.

"It's quite safe now," I said. "Let's go and----"

"What can I have the pleasure of showing you?" said a soothing voice

at our backs.

We turned round in alarm.

"Er--we only just--let me see, _what_ was it you wanted?" said Miss

Middleton to me.

"I don't really want anything. I was going to help you buy one of

those--you know."

"Yes, but I've got that. I know there was _something_ you said you

wanted very much."

"Probably tea."

"Tiaras," explained Miss Middleton hastily. "Of course."

"Certainly, madam," said the shopwalker. "If you will just sit

down," he continued, leading us to a little room out of the main

stream of shoppers, "I will send somebody to attend you."

We sat down mechanically. I leant my stick against a showcase and

balanced my hat on the top of it.

"Now you've done it," I said. "How many tiaras shall we have? I've

got nearly four pounds."

"We needn't have any. We can say we don't much care about their

selection."

"Or that we wanted one specially built for us."

"One goes into dozens of shops without buying _anything_," said Miss

Middleton cheerily.

"I never do," I replied gloomily. "Look out, here he is."

An attendant advanced briskly towards us. I put my hands in my

pockets and tried to count my money.

"Tiaras, madam? Certainly. About what price?"

"Tell him about three pounds eight and six," I whispered to Miss

Middleton. "Three pounds nine," I corrected, as I ran another

sixpence to ground.

"Here is a beautiful one at two hundred and fifty pounds."

"Too much," I prompted softly.

"Oh," broke in Miss Middleton brightly, "I'm so sorry--such a silly

mistake! We wanted neck-chains, not tiaras! Barbara has a tiara

already, hasn't she?" she appealed to me.

"Two," I said quickly. "If not three."

"I'm so sorry," said Miss Middleton, with a dazzling smile. "The

first gentleman must have misunderstood. Of course we gave her a

tiara last year."

The man was disappointed; I saw that. But the smile melted him, and

he went off in all friendliness.

"Tiara doesn't sound very much like neck-chain," I remarked after a

pause.

"Oh, don't you think so? It depends how you say it. Like Beauchamp

and Cholmondeley."

"And what is it when pronounced properly?"

"It's a chain that hangs round your neck, and when you don't quite

know what to say to anybody you play with it carelessly. Same as men

smoking cigarettes, only better for you."

"I see. Well, here we have a hundred of the best."

The attendant got to business at once.

"This one," he said, holding up rather a jolly one, "comes out at ten

guineas."

"Tell him," I whispered to Miss Middleton, "that we've only come out

with three."

"That's _very_ pretty," she said. "Are those moon-stones?"

"Yes, madam. The fashionable stone this year."

"It's more for next year that we want it."

"I should say this season. I don't think you will find a prettier

one than this, madam."

"It's very sweet. But aren't they unlucky, unless you happen to have

been born in the right month?" She turned to me. "When is Barbara's

birthday?"

"May," I said unhesitatingly. "I mean March."

"Anyhow," said Miss Middleton. "I know it's wrong for moonstones,

because I was thinking of giving her some two years ago, and it had

to "be opals instead."

"We both thought of it," I said.

Miss Middleton looked at me so admiringly that I began to get

reckless.

"Besides, we don't know the size of her neck," I went on. "And she

never smokes--I mean she never doesn't know what to say to anybody.

So I think we should be making a mistake if we gave her this. I do

indeed. Now if it had been anybody else but Barbara----"

The man looked from one to the other of us in bewilderment.

"If you could show us some hatpins instead?" said Miss Middleton

hurriedly, before he could open his mouth.

"This is excellent," I said, as he retired in confusion; "we're

working down well. All we've got to do now is to wait till he comes

back and then say that we're sorry but we meant hairpins. With

hair-pins you're practically there."

"Supposing they only had gold ones?"

"Then we should point out that they wouldn't go with Barbara's

curiously-coloured hair. You leave this to me. I can finish it off

now on my head. At the same time I'm sorry I'm not going to spend

_anything_."

"Oh, but you are," said Miss Middleton. "You're going to give me and

mother tea."

"Of course I am," I agreed.

* * * * * * *

After tea I went back to the shop by myself.

"I want," I said "a trifle for about three pounds. A moonstone

pendant or something. Yes, that's very sweet. No, I'll take it with

me."

They packed it in a pretty little box for me, and I'm going to send

it to Miss Middleton on the twenty-fourth. I am putting in a card

with the words "From Barbara" on it. As I said, I am not giving any

presents myself this year, but I do think that Barbara should repay

at least some of the kindnesses which have been showered upon her so

wantonly.

CHESS

(The author cannot lay claim to any great technical knowledge of

chess, but he fancies that he understands the spirit of the game. He

feels that, after the many poems on the Boat Race, a few bracing

lines on the Inter-University Chess Match would be a welcome change.)

This is the ballad of Edward Bray,

Captain of Catherine's, Cambridge Blue--

Oh, no one ever had just his way

Of huffing a bishop with KB2!

The day breaks fine, and the evenings brings

A worthy foe in the Oxford man--

A great finesser with pawns and things,

But quick in the loose when the game began.

The board was set, and the rivals tossed

But Fortune (alas!) was Oxford's friend.

"Tail," cried Edward, and Edward lost;

So Oxford played from the fireplace end.

We hold our breath, for the game's begun--

Oh, who so gallant as Edward Bray!

He's taken a bishop from KQ1,

And ruffed it--just in the Cambridge way!

Then Oxford castles his QB knight

(He follows the old, old Oxford groove;

Though never a gambit saw the light

That's able to cope with Edward's move).

The game went on, and the game was fast,

Oh, Oxford huffed and his King was crowned;

The exchange was lost, and a pawn was passed,

And under the table a knight was found!

Then Oxford chuckled; but Edward swore,

A horrible, horrible oath swore he;

And landed him one on the QB4,

And followed it up with an RQ3.

Time was called; with an air of pride

Up to his feet rose Edward Bray.

"Marker, what of the score?" he cried.

"What of the battle I've won this day?"

The score was counted; and Bray had won

By two in honours, and four by tricks,

And half of a bishop that came undone,

And all of a bishop on KQ6.

* * * * * *

Then here's to Chess: and a cheer again

For the man who fought on an April day

With never a thought of sordid gain!

England's proud of you, Edward Bray!

PROGRESSIVE BRIDGE

There were twelve tables numbered A, B, C, up to--well, twelve of

them, and I started at E, because my name is Ernest. Our host

arranged us and, of course, he may have had quite another scheme in

his mind. If so, it was an extraordinary coincidence that my

partner's name was Ethel. She herself swore it was Millicent, but I

doubt if one can trust a woman in these matters. She looked just

like an Ethel. I had never seen her before, I shall never see her

again, but she will always be Ethel to me.

There is only one rule at progressive bridge, and that is, if you

lose you go to the next table, and if you win you stay where you are.

In any case you get a fresh partner each time. That being so, it

seemed hardly worth while to ask Ethel what she discarded from. As

it happened, though, she began it.

"I discard from strength," she said.

"So do I," I agreed gladly. We already had a lot in common. "Great

strength returns the penny," I added.

"What's that?"

"Moderate strength rings the bell. It's a sort of formula I say to

myself, and brings luck. May I play to hearts?"

Ethel discarded a small heart on the first round of clubs, and a

small club on the first round of hearts. After which, systematically

and together, we discarded from great weakness. What with the revoke

and other things they scored hundreds and thousands that game.

"You know, where providence goes wrong," I said, "is in

over-estimating our skill. Providence thinks too highly of us. It

thinks that if it gives us a knave and two tens between us we can get

a grand slam."

"Yes; and I think--I think, perhaps, that just the least little bit

it underrates Dorothy's abilities."

"Indeed?" I said. Dorothy was the person who had just taken two

hundred and ninety-eight off us.

"Yes. You see Dorothy has played before, and I don't think

providence knew."

"It rather looks like that."

"Mind," said Ethel graciously, "I don't blame providence for not

knowing."

Dorothy laughed, and cut for me. I dealt myself three aces, and went

no trumps. To my surprise Dorothy's partner doubled, and led the ace

of hearts.

"One moment," I said, and I took it up, and looked at the back of it.

Then I looked at the back of my own ace of hearts. Then I looked at

the front of it again, and swore very softly, and played it.

"I'm very sorry," I apologised at the end of the game. "I had a wolf

in sheep's clothing, an ass in a lion's skin. You saw me play the

three of hearts. Well, do you know--it's very sad--he actually

pretended to be the ace. Hid his head behind one card, and his feet

behind another, and only--well, I thought it was the ace."

At the end of the round Ethel and I moved on.

"Good-bye," I said to Dorothy, "I like watching you play. If you

wait here I shall be round again soon."

My next partner was called Aggie. Ethel addressed her as Mary, but

she was much too lively for Mary. I had never seen her before, I

shall never see her again, but she will always be Aggie to me.

She began at once:

"I discard from weakness, partner. I like hearts led, I never go

spades on my own, I live on tapioca and toadstools, and the

consequence was----"

"It's the same with me," I said, "except about tapioca. I don't like

tapioca. In fact I always--er--discard from tapioca. Otherwise we

agree. It's your deal. Now," I said to Ethel, "we shall see what

providence thinks of our comparative merits."

Providence made no mistake. In the whole round my partner and I

scored once only. _Chicane_ in spades. I moved on to G. I should

never see Ethel again.

"I always play the Canadian discard," said Violet, "and I like spades

led."

I need hardly say that Aggie, whom Ethel called Mary, spoke of Violet

as Diana. But she looked much more like Violet, and she will always

be Violet to me. I had never seen her before though, and I shall

never see her again.

"So do I," I said. "Do you know Canada at all? I always wish I had

been there."

"I go a good deal to Switzerland," said Violet. "Are you fond of

bridge?"

"No, never; that is, I mean, 'Very.' Shall we cut?"

The "Canadian discard" hardly does itself justice under that name.

It is no mere discard, but embraces all the finer points of bridge.

It leads through weakness, and blocks your partner's long suits, and

trumps his tricks; and, though I couldn't discover any recognised

system about it, revokes now and then. I, too, from tact or

sympathy, or some such motive, played the Canadian discard for all I

was worth. We got to H without any difficulty....

J, K and L may be passed by, for nothing happened there. For some

reason "I" was left out, or, rather, run into J. I cannot understand

the point of this. To every man his table, and I feel convinced that

I should have done remarkably well at "I." I had been looking

forward to it all the evening. I don't much care about betting, but

I am prepared to wager a hundred pounds that I should have got a

grand slam at "I."

It was somewhere down in the X's that I met Maud. I had been round I

don't know how many times, and was feeling quite giddy. Alice,

Elizabeth, Iris, Mabel--they were all forgotten when I came to play

with Maud. Hepzibah (on my right) called her Millicent or something

like that, but I knew really that her name must be Maud. I had never

seen her before, I shall never see her again, but she will always be

Maud to me.

"I discard from hearts," I said. "I like my weakest suit led, I have

revoked three times this evening, at table G on the right-hand side

of the fireplace I played the 'Canadian discard,' and I shall never

play it again, at K as you go round the lamp I had four aces and my

partner went spades, I've had rotten luck all through, and I'm

enjoying myself very much. Shall we be very cautious, or would you

like to play a dashing game?"

"Oh, let's dash," said Maud.

I dealt, and went no trumps on two aces. To my great surprise

Hepzibah's partner doubled and led the ace of clubs.

"One moment," I said, and I took it up and looked at the back of it.

Then I looked at the back of my own ace of clubs. Then I looked at

the front of it, and swore very softly, and played it.

"I'm very sorry," I began at the end of the game, "but----"

"Haven't we met before?" said Maud, with a smile.

I looked at her hard. "By Jove! Ethel!" I cried.

"My name's Millicent," said Maud, "and seeing that we met for the

first time a few hours ago----"

"Yes, you were my first partner, 'Ethel.'"

"I'm sorry. Who is Ethel?"

"I beg your pardon," I apologised. "But I always call my first

partner at progressive bridge Ethel. It's a sort of hobby with me."

"I see," said Maud--I mean Ethel. Well, I suppose I must call her

Millicent now. Though I had never seen her before, and shall never

see her again, she will always be Millicent to me.

DRESSING UP

I. AT A PAGEANT

Our episode is the tenth and last and (I may add unofficially) the

most important. The period of it is 1750. In order to lead up to it

properly it has been found necessary to start the first episode at 53

B.C. This gives the audience time to get hungry for us. "At last!"

they say, when we come on, "this _is_ the end, Maria."

The Duchess of Kirkcudbright (N.B.) says that they don't say that at

all. They say, "Why, Henry, it's 1750! I had no idea. How the time

flies when you are enjoying yourself. We _must_ stay to the end; a

few minutes won't make any difference now, and it's only cold mutton."

I must explain that it is the Duchess of Kirkcudbright (N.B.)--and

_do_ remember the "N.B.," because she is very particular about

it--who in this episode condescends to dance a minuet with me: that

stately old measure (if you don't trip over the sand-hill opposite

Block D.) which so delighted our forefathers. It is a very sad

thing, but though the whole pageant, as I have explained, hinges upon

us, yet our names and description do not appear upon the programme.

We are put down briefly, and I think libellously, as "Revellers."

However, we learnt that we were really people of some position--right

in the smart set, by all accounts; so I decided to be Lord Tunbridge

Wells, and my partner the Duchess of Kirkcudbright (N.B.). That is

just like her--to be a whole county, when I am only a watering-place.

We are supposed to do the "revelling" as soon as we come in. As I

lead my partner down the steps I say to her, "Our revel, I think?"

and she replies, "Shall we revel, or shall we sit it out?" After a

little discussion we decide to revel, partly because there is nowhere

to sit down, and partly because the prompter has his eye on us. Now

I don't know what your idea of revelling is, but mine would include

at the very least a small ginger ale and a slice of seed-cake. I

mean, I don't think that would be overdoing it at all. But do you

suppose we are allowed this--or indeed anything? Not likely. And

yet it is just a little touch of that sort which gives verisimilitude

to a whole pageant.

Before we have really got through our revelling the band strikes up,

and suddenly we are all in our places for the minuet. Now, although

you have paid your two guineas like a man, and are sitting in the

very front row, you mustn't think we have taken all this trouble of

learning the minuet simply to amuse you. Not at all. We are doing

it for the sake of King George the Second, no less; a command

performance. And so, when we are all in a line, just ready to start,

and I whisper to my partner, "I say, I'm awfully sorry, but I've

forgotten the minuet. Let's do the Lancers instead," she whispers

back, "Quick! George is looking at me. Is my patch on straight?"

"No," I say. "Now, don't forget you have to smile all the time.

Hallo, we're off."

I am not going to describe the dance to you, because it is too

difficult. But I may say briefly that there's a whole lot of things

you do with your feet, and another whole lot with your hands; that

you have to sway your body about in an easy and graceful manner; that

you must keep one eye on the ground to see that you don't fall over

the sandhills, and another eye on your partner to see that she is

doing it all right, and the two of you a joint eye on everybody else

to see that the affair is going symmetrically. And _then_--then

comes the final instruction: "Don't look anxious. Smile, and seem to

be enjoying yourself."

So far I have resisted the inclination to smile. The fact is that

when I cast aside my usual habiliments and take upon me the

personality of another I like to do the thing thoroughly--to enter

into the spirit of the part. Now I will put the case before you, and

you shall say whether I am not right.

Here we have, as I conceive the situation, a sprig of the nobility,

Tunbridge Wells. He is a modest young man, who spends most of his

time at his lovely Kentish seat, flanked by fine old forest

trees--preferring the quiet of the country to the noise and bustle of

London.

One day, however, he ventures up to town, and looking in at his

customary coffee-house is hailed by an acquaintance. Tunbridge

Wells, I may mention, is beautifully attired in a long blue coat,

white satin waistcoat, fancy breeches, with quaint designs painted on

them, silk stockings, and shoes which are too small for him.

"What are you doing to-night?" says his friend. "Come down to

Chelsea with me. There's a grand Venetian _fête_ on, and old George

will be there."

"Right," says Tunbridge Wells.

When they get to the gardens his friend takes him aside.

"I say," he begins anxiously, "I hope you won't mind, but the fact is

that I've promised you shall dance in a minuet to-night. Old George

particularly wants to see one."

"But I simply couldn't," says Tunbridge Wells, in alarm. "Can't you

get somebody else?"

"Oh, but you must. I've got you a jolly partner--the Duchess of

Kirkcudbright (N.B.). You know the minuet, of course?"

"Well, I've learnt it; but I've very nearly forgotten it again. And

my shoes are beastly uncomfortable. Before the King too! It's a bit

steep, you know."

"Well then, you will. Good man."

"No, no," cries Tunbridge Wells hastily, and leads his friend aside

under the trees. "I say," he begins mysteriously, "don't say

anything, but--well, it's rather awkward ... I may as well tell you

... these--er--these things are a bit tight. They look all right

like this, you know, but when you bend down--well, I mean I have to

be jolly careful."

"I was just thinking how pretty they were. A beautiful thing, that,"

he adds, pointing to a crescent moon in blue on Tunbridge Wells' left

knee.

"Don't touch," says Wells in alarm, "it comes off like anything. I

lost a dragon-fly only yesterday. Well, you see how it is, old man.

But for them I should have loved it. Only ... I say, don't be a

fool.... Your servant, Duchess. I was just saying ... yes, I am

devoted to it.... Yes.... Yes. Let's see, it _is_ the left foot,

isn't it? (Confound that idiot!)"

Now then, do you wonder that the poor fellow looks anxious, or that I

feel it my duty as a good actor to look anxious too?

I have promised not to describe the whole minuet to you, but I must

mention one figure in it of which I am particularly fond. In this

you rejoin your partner after a long absence, and you have once more

her supporting hand to hold you up. For some hours previously you

have been alone in the wild and undulating open, tripping over

molehills and falling down ha-has; and it is very pleasant

(especially when your shoes fit you too soon) to get back to her and

pour all your troubles into her sympathetic ear. It's a figure in

which you stand on one foot each for a considerable time, and paw the

air with the others. You preserve your balance better if you

converse easily and naturally.

"I nearly came a frightful purler just now; did you see?"

"H'sh, not so loud. Have you found mother yet? She's here to-day."

"One of my patches fell off. I hope nobody heard it."

"You've got a different wig to-day. Why?"

"It's greyer. I had such a very anxious moment yesterday. You know

that last bow at the end where you go down and stay under water for

about five minutes? Well, I really thought--however, they didn't."

"I don't like you in this one. It doesn't suit you at all."

"So I thought at first. But if you gaze at it very earnestly for

three hours, and then look up at the ceiling, you----"

"Why, there _is_ mother. Hold up."

"I fancy we have rather a good action in this figure. Do you think

she's noticing it? I hope she knows that we _could_ stand on one leg

without moving the other one at all. I mean I don't want her to

think---- Hallo, here we are. Good-bye. See you again in the next

figure but one." And the Duchess of Kirkcudbright (N.B.) trips off.

I put in the "N.B." because she is very particular about it; and I

say "trips" because I know the ground.

II. AT A DANCE

"Then you really are coming?" said Queen Elizabeth, as she gave me my

third cup of tea.

"Yes, I really am," I sighed.

"What as?"

"I don't know at all--something with a cold. I leave it to you,

partner, only don't go a black suit."

"What about Richelieu?"

"I should never be able to pronounce that," I confessed. "Besides, I

always think that these great scientists--I should say, philos--that

is, of course, that these generals--er, which room is the

encyclopædia in?"

"You might go as one of the kings of England. Which is your

favourite king?"

"William and Mary. Now that _would_ be an original costume. I

should have----"

"Don't be ridiculous. Why not Henry VIII.?"

"Do you think I should get a lot of partners as Henry VIII.? Anyhow,

I don't think it's a very becoming figure."

"But you don't wear fancy dress simply because it's becoming."

"Well, that is rather the point to settle. Are we going to enhance

my natural beauty, or would you like it--er--toned down a little? Of

course, I _could_ go as the dog-faced man, only----"

"Very well then, if you don't like Henry, what about Edward I.?"

"But why do you want to thrust royalty on me? I'd much sooner go as

Perkin Warbeck. I should wear a brown perkin--jerkin."

"Jack is going as Sir Walter Raleigh."

"Then I shall certainly touch him for a cigarette," I said, as I got

up to go.

* * * * * * *

It was a week later that I met Elizabeth in Bond Street.

"Well?" she said, "have you got your things?"

"I haven't," I confessed.

"I forget who you said you were going as?"

"Somebody who had black hair," I said. "I have been thinking it over

and I have come to the conclusion that I should have knocked them

rather if I had had black hair--instead of curly eyes and blue hair.

Can you think of anybody for me?"

Queen Elizabeth regarded me as sternly as she might have regarded----

Well, I'm not very good at history.

"Do you mean to say," she said at last, "that that is as far as you

have got? Somebody who had black hair?"