A Case for Another Eminent Authority
WHEN I buckled on Toddles’ pads I had all the symptoms of a bad attack.
I was a trifle dizzy, I was half blind, my heart just seemed to be
trying what it could do, while my limbs were equally irresponsible.
There was a great jug of cider laid on a table under the trees, and the
Optimist would insist on my taking a draught of it, ere I went in to
bat.
Grace placed her field with consummate care. Everybody was laughing as
I took my guard.
“Don’t think he’ll stay three minutes,” said Carteret, quite audibly.
Had Carteret only known, it was the kind of remark to make me stay
three hours. That slice of Anglo-Saxon in my constitution, that I
have already had occasion to advertise, objects above all things to
be walked over rough-shod. I knit my teeth. I determined to perish or
prevail. That moment, though, I should have been very well satisfied
had the perishing anticipated itself by occurring there and then.
Grace’s bowling was much as I had judged it to be. I knew her
hereditary peculiarities would take a terrible amount of negotiating.
And they certainly did. The very first ball I turned half round to,
with the idea of getting it away to leg, whereon the flight, slow as it
was, so deceived me that had it not been for my exceedingly thoughtful
and well-trained right leg I should have suffered the humiliation of
being clean bowled middle stump.
“How’s that?” cried Grace.
“Didn’t pitch straight,” said the Rector.
I sighed my deep relief.
“There she goes,” said T. S. M. from extra cover. “Begins her games at
once. If Biffin had been standin’ it would have been ‘Hout, Miss!’ sure
as a gun. Lucky for you, Dimsdale.”
“Tommy,” said Grace, “will you have the goodness to change places with
Toddles at short-leg? Very close in please, Tommy. I’m going to bowl
a few half-volleys just outside the leg stick; so you will look out
for your face, won’t you? And you won’t funk ’em, will you, Tommy? And
young boys shouldn’t be quite so jolly cheeky, should they?”
In addition to her curl, there were several other things appertaining
to Grace’s bowling that required watching. Her length was perfect,
and, strangely enough, like her model the great Alfred Shaw, she had
acquired the trick of heightening and lowering her delivery without
any appreciable change in the action, but a pretty considerable amount
in the flight. And, better than this, or worse, she was mistress in
a measure of the painfully difficult art of making occasional balls
“hang.” Although the Rectory wicket was well-nigh perfect, one had to
watch her all the way, and then be prepared to alter one’s tactics
at the last moment. She could make them “do a bit” both ways, and,
in addition to all these accomplishments, she had the imperturbable
temperament of the really great bowler--she didn’t mind being hit. That
attitude of mind is undoubtedly the hall-mark of the master. She kept
pitching up to me in the most audacious way. But I resolutely refused
to “have a go,” until at last she had the downright impudence to send
me a particularly slow full toss to leg, which I, of course, promptly
cracked to the fence for four.
“Thought you wouldn’t be able to resist that,” she said winningly. “And
do have a smack at this, Dimmy, just for fun.”
“This” was a particularly silly-looking half-volley well on the
leg-side also. Having tasted the delights of a fourer so recently, I
was naturally a bit headstrong and uplifted. I had a full sweep at
it, and in the heat of the moment utterly ignored the fatal curl. As
a consequence I caught it on the extreme end of my bat, and it went
spinning up a considerable height, straight into the hands of mid-on.
My very soul groaned. To be caught napping so absurdly and so palpably!
My emotions were so bitter that gall becomes honey by comparison. For I
had walked into the trap with my eyes open.
Now the Optimist was the fieldsman at mid-on. And the dear, kind
Optimist, most unselfish of men, had a fellow feeling that made him
wondrous kind! The Optimist shaped for the catch in the crudest manner.
He dropped me inexcusably in consequence. It was idle of him to urge,
as urge he did, that the sun was in his eyes, and that he couldn’t see
the catch. As the bowler fiercely pointed out, the sun was directly
behind him.
“It must have been the shadow, then,” said the Optimist unblushingly.
The roars of laughter that greeted his unscrupulous behaviour and his
subsequent effrontery were infectious. Even the Rector contributed a
hearty guffaw.
“Little Clumpton’s sold you this time!” cried T. S. M. in ecstasy. “You
may be very clever, Grace, but you’ve just got left.”
The bowler’s dignity and self-restraint were really very fine, however.
“He’ll simply get it all the worse when I go in,” was her Spartan
answer.
“We shall all take _extremely_ great care to collar anything you put
up, though,” said T.S.M., “so you’d better play _piano_ till you’ve got
the runs off.”
Grace continued to bowl even wilier and slower than before. Runs were
very difficult to obtain, but, nevertheless, I warily, cautiously
obtained a few. The bulk of them were made by means of leg touches and
pushes, and occasional big singles into the country. She was too slow
to cut; behind-the-wicket strokes were, by Rectory rules and the laws
of single wicket also, ineligible. But I was able once to regale myself
with a hit past cover for three. This was the only time, however, that
I got a chance to play my favourite stroke, as the bowler was evidently
of opinion that it was too expensive to feed. I had made twenty-three
by careful play when I got into two minds with one that curled
outrageously, and hung as well. I returned it as tamely as possible to
the bowler, who clasped it lovingly and said: “Poor old Dimmy! Did ’um,
then!”
Thereon she walked off under the trees to a little light and liquid
refreshment, which for her partook of the nature of that innocuous
concoction known as stone-ginger; whilst I ruefully unbuckled the pads
of the ironical Toddles.
All things considered, I felt that I had no reason to be dissatisfied
with my score. Twenty-three was quite the maximum of what I had
expected to get, as from the first I had not been disposed to
under-rate the excellence of Grace’s bowling. Indeed, she was kind
enough to say herself, in a reflective tone,--
“Your batting’s really very decent, Dimmy, very decent, indeed, you
know. So glad you watch the ball. Strikes me you’re the sort o’ man to
get runs on a bad wicket. With a bit more experience you ought to do
things. Oughtn’t he, boys?”
“Oh, of course,” said T. S. M. “If he can get twenty-three against your
bowlin’ he must be phenomenal. Reg’lar freak--fit for Barnum!”
“You’ve never got twenty-three against it, Tommy, anyhow,” said Grace.
“Such a beas’ly bore, don’t-cher-know,” said the Harrow captain
wearily, “to keep hittin’ girls to the fence, and then havin’ to go and
fag after it for ’em.”
“Why, you know quite well, Tommy,” said his sister, in a very pained
voice, “that I’ve never let you fetch a ball for me in your life. No,
never. It’s shameful of you, Tommy, to talk like that, ’cause it’s not
true. Look here, you men, it’s not true, is it?”
“Oh, dear, no,” said Toddles. “You’d scorn to do it, Grace. We all
know that. You’re far too good a sportsman--I mean sportswoman.”
“Stick to the man,” said Grace. “Sounds so much primer, somehow.”
“What’s Toddles up to now?” said Charlie suspiciously. “Whenever he
talks to Grace in that kind of way there’s something behind it. Does he
want to smoke in the drawing-room, or is it breakfast in bed? Grace,
distrust that man. Last time he was allowed to put sugar in his tea
with his fingers, instead of the tongs.”
“I like that,” said Grace. “Why, that’s what you all do, you horrible
creatures! Even Dimmy does.”
“‘Even Dimmy does!’” repeated Archie. “That’s your batting, my boy.”
And as I actually saw Grace blush at Archie’s pointed remark I began to
persuade myself that it really must be my batting.
When Grace went in, she did not put on pads, for a sufficient reason,
but it amused us all, and particularly her parent, to see her don a
right-hand batting glove.
“It’s all right, father,” said she. “Sha’n’t need it, of course. It’s
only out of respect for Dimmy, you know. Looks a bit cheeky to go in
with nothing on, as though you were only playing golf or marbles, or
something like that.”
“Or having a bath,” said Toddles, _sotto voce_.
It was characteristic of Grace that she never held people guilty of
laughing directly at _her_. And I am not sure, either, whether this
simpleness of mind did not spring from a sublime faith in herself and
all her works. Certainly when she set about getting the twenty-four
runs necessary for my defeat, she proceeded to wipe them off in a
magnificently confident manner. My first three balls yielded five.
This certainly would not do. I must try lobs. But why, oh, why had
my youth been so grievously misspent? Oh, why, I asked myself in the
bitterness of my spirit had I always been bat in hand at the nets,
slogging away for hours, instead of doing now and then a little honest
bowling? It made me giddy to think of what service a decent length and
a fair command of the ball would be to me at this moment. Oh, if I
could only bowl! If I could only bowl! Young men, I exhort you to heed
these awful consequences. Batting in itself is very alluring, but there
are other things in cricket besides a cut for four, delightful as that
is. When the other side are in, it is well to have a dim idea of how to
get them out. At this dread hour, owing to the errors of my childhood,
I had not, alas! the remotest notion how to do so.
Nevertheless, the veiled jeers of the field, the frank amusement
of the umpire, and the downright contempt of the person wielding
the willow, made my Anglo-Saxon once more rise within me. Grace’s
does-he-call-this-bowling air was most exasperating. But I still went
on in my dogged, defiant, get-there-sometime style. I might be without
hope, but I was determined that the enemy should not know it.
Bowling slow, elementary, underhand twisters, I kept running after them
up the pitch in a frankly dare-devil manner, and several times took
red-hot cracks travelling to mid-off about ten yards from Grace’s bat.
Runs continued to come, however, just as they thought fit apparently,
but my fielding was so whole-hearted that broad grins presently
succeeded derisive smiles on the faces of those who witnessed it. But
the five became fifteen in no time. Nine more and all was over. The
imminence of disaster nerved me to superhuman efforts. Grace mistimed
one ball a little, and as it rose from her bat for a short distance,
I sprawled arms and legs up the pitch, and literally hurled myself at
it. I just contrived to touch it with my finger-tips as it fell. Had it
come off it would have been something to talk about; as it was, it cost
divers seasoned cricketers a blink of astonishment.
[Illustration: “I just contrived to touch it.”
_Willow, the King._] [_Page 306._]
“Dimmy,” said the one wielding the willow, “aren’t you afraid o’ your
backbone at all?”
It was apparent that she was becoming impressed. With that thought I
recalled the words of the penetrating Archie: “All women have their
weakness. Grace’s is for good fielding.” I must show her what I could
do. After vainly striving to reach one that she pulled well wide of
mid-on for three, she said,--
“Dimmy, please don’t do that. It worries me. I’m so afraid that you’ll
twist yourself into something that could never be untied. That would be
horrible, wouldn’t it? And I’m _so_ afraid of your backbone.”
“It is in your own power,” said I, “to end these gyrations. You have
only got to get out, you know.”
Her score had now reached twenty. Four more and a life’s happiness was
wrecked. Hope there was none. She was thoroughly set, and capable of
doing anything with the miserable stuff that I was rolling up. It was
in vain that I altered the position of the field after the delivery
of every ball. She inevitably dispatched the one that followed past
the precise place from which the man had just been taken. Her batting
was really cruel in its complacence and resource. The grim gleam that
illuminated her look knocked at my heart. A gleam does _not_ knock
as a rule, I know, but many and strange things are allowed to happen
to the heart of a man in my desperate predicament. The light-minded
fieldsmen thought it quite a joke, however, and they proferred no end
of wise suggestions. Had I not better have my point a bit squarer; my
mid-off a bit deeper; my extra cover a bit more round; and the two men
guarding the cucumber frame standing in front of the cucumbers, instead
of sitting on the woodwork?
I thanked them in a chastened tone for being so very helpful.
My pitiful bowling has already been the subject of various painful
home truths. But I do believe that my fielding was not unworthy of
kind phrases. At least, it argues unusual excellence to gain the open
approbation of the great. Yet when I stopped three smashing half-volley
hits in sharp succession, and cut the knees of Archie’s unmentionables
in a fall I had in endeavouring to combine the duties of cover-point
and the bowler, I heard Grace sigh most distinctly, and Archie said,--
“Dimsdale, are these acrobatic performances intended to divert Grace’s
attention from run-getting? or are they merely to afford a little
variety entertainment to the lookers-on? If that’s the idea, I think
we can compliment you on a daring and original turn.”
But I repeat that I heard Grace distinctly sigh. Could it be that my
fielding was playing havoc with that relentless bosom? Oh, that this
be so! Our scores were now level. And was it not strange that, though
Grace had been making runs precisely as she pleased, she suddenly
ceased to get them altogether? Instead of playing a wonderfully
aggressive and confident game, she began to vacillate. Nay, she
half-heartedly blocked balls that she had been previously hitting to
the fence. What _could_ it mean? Was it possible that good fielding was
in truth the one weakness of Grace the unsusceptible? What more likely?
Was she not a cricketer to her finger-tips? and is not sound fielding
as likely to appeal to persons of that calibre as the higher virtues?
“What’s old Grace rotting at?” cried Charlie.
“My opinion is she wants Dimmy to bowl her,” said George.
“Just look how she’s nursing the bowling now,” the Optimist said.
“She might be playin’ Humphreys, the way in which she pokes at those
cuckoos,” said T. S. M.
Grace had now been more than two overs without getting a run. And the
agonized expression that she wore seemed to say quite plainly,
“Oh, Dimmy! _why_ don’t you bowl me?”
Yes, my fielding had done it. But of bowling her I was, alas!
physically incapable. In my anxiety to improve I got worse. Indeed, I
was so totally overborne by the requirements of the situation that I
must have given the match away myself by bowling a wide had not Grace
had the presence of mind to step across her wicket, and thereby just
succeed in covering a ball that looked like hitting the fat barrister
at point. Her face appeared to say, “Oh, Dimmy! _do_ keep off wides and
no balls!”
Next ball, however, she took the liberty, as was her arbitrary fashion,
of settling the business for herself: Grace deliberately knocked down
her wicket. Yes, I repeat it in bald prose: Grace deliberately knocked
down her wicket. As a preliminary, she withdrew her bat far away from
the ball, evidently in the forlorn hope that she would be bowled
outright. But as the ball did not happen to be straight by a good deal,
and seeing that so long as she remained in my own erratic trundling
constituted a source of danger in itself, therefore did she turn round
and reduce the stumps with the back of her bat.
“Why, Grace,” demanded the General Public eagerly, “what in thunder are
you playing at?”
“There’s no declaration law in the Rectory rules,” said Grace. “So a
side can’t declare its innings, don’t you see?”
“Been inadvertently omitted,” said Charlie.
“But what did you want to declare for?” said T. S. M. “You hadn’t won.”
“Yes, tell us why you wanted to declare,” said Toddles, with his
wickedest expression.
Perhaps it was the sun that made Grace so hot and red; but, be that as
it may, the fact must be put in history.
“’Cause I did,” said Grace.
“A feminine reason, I fear,” said the Rector.
“Well, I think it’s something like this,” said I, with rather more
valour than discretion: “there must be lots of times, don’t you know,
when a girl would like to declare, and she can’t declare, because,
according to the laws of the game, there’s no rule whereby she can
declare. You see it, don’t you?”
“Clear as mud,” said Charlie. “She can declare when she can’t declare,
and she---- Say it again, old chap. Certain to get the hang of it
before the end of the season.”
“O’ course, a girl can’t declare, you know, Charlie,” said Grace.
“Well, why a girl?” asked Toddles, hiding his face in his cap. “And why
should she want to declare? And what is it she wants to declare?”
“Depends on what you’re playing at,” said Archie darkly.
“I am afraid, gentlemen,” said the Rector, “that you are not entirely
familiar with the rules of the game. I think you may safely leave the
matter with Laura. I’ve always said that she had more purely technical
knowledge than all the rest of us put together.”
“Beg pardon, sir,” said Biffin, “but I’ve allus said the very same
about Miss Laura. Allus back _her_ opinion, I would. Although, begging
pardon, sir, I think she’s fair hout this time.”
“Clean bowled, Biffin, I suppose you mean?” said the Rector.
“Hout, sir, fair hout!” said that ancient villain, chuckling till the
score-book shook.
Meantime the Rector was patting his daughter’s cheek. And almost
simultaneously some person or persons unknown buffeted me violently in
the ribs. My suspicions rested on Toddles.
EPILOGUE
From _The Morning Post_:
DIMSDALE--TRENTHAM.--On the 11th inst., at the Parish Church,
Hickory, ----shire, by the Rev. E. J. H. Elphinstone, M.A., Richard
Cranford, eldest son of the late William Dimsdale, to Laura Mary
(“Grace”), only daughter of the Honourable the Reverend George
Trentham, D.D., Rector of Saint Mary’s, Hickory.
THE END
Butler & Tanner. The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.
Novels by..
..Guy Boothby.
SPECIAL AND ORIGINAL DESIGNS.
Each volume attractively illustrated by Stanley L. Wood and others
_Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, trimmed edges, =5s.=_
MR. RUDYARD KIPLING SAYS--
“Mr. GUY BOOTHBY has come to great honours now. His name is large upon
hoardings, his books sell like hot cakes, and he keeps a level head
through it all. I’ve met him several times in England, and he added to
my already large respect for him.”
PHAROS, THE EGYPTIAN.
“This powerful novel is weird, wonderful, and soul-thrilling. Mr.
BOOTHBY succeeds in making it almost real, and its marvels and
mysteries almost credable. There never was in this world so strange
and wonderful a love story and Mr. GUY BOOTHBY’S admirers will
probably agree that the most marvellous fiction he has ever produced
is ‘Pharos, the Egyptian.’”--_The Scotsman._
ACROSS THE WORLD FOR A WIFE.
THE LUST OF HATE.
BUSHIGRAMS.
THE FASCINATION OF THE KING.
DR. NIKOLA.
THE BEAUTIFUL WHITE DEVIL.
A BID FOR FORTUNE; Or, Dr. Nikola’s Vendetta.
IN STRANGE COMPANY: A Story of Chili and the Southern Seas.
THE MARRIAGE OF ESTHER: A Torres Straits Sketch.
LONDON: WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD.
NEW COMPLETE LIBRARY EDITION
.. OF ..
G. J. Whyte=Melville’s Novels
_Large crown 8vo, cloth gilt, =3s. 6d.= per volume._
THE late G. J. WHYTE-MELVILLE, uniting, as he did, the qualities
of poet, novelist, sportsman, and leader of society, has long been
acknowledged to stand above rivalry when dealing with sport and the
romance of old. Although the sale of his works has always been large,
the publishers feel that the time has now arrived to issue an edition
more worthy of his fame, and have therefore pleasure in announcing a
monthly issue of his novels, complete in about twenty-five volumes.
Each volume will be illustrated by front-rank artists, well printed
from type specially cast, on best antique paper, and neatly and
handsomely bound in cloth gilt.
1. =KATERFELTO: A Story of Exmoor.= With four illustrations by LUCY
E. KEMP-WELCH.
2. =CERISE: A Tale of the last Century.= With four illustrations by
G. P. JACOMB-HOOD.
3. =SARCHEDON: A Legend of the Great Queen.= With four illustrations
by S. E. WALLER.
4. =SONGS AND VERSES, and THE TRUE CROSS.= With five illustrations by
S. E. WALLER.
5. =MARKET HARBOROUGH, and INSIDE THE BAR.= With four illustrations
by JOHN CHARLTON.
6. =BLACK BUT COMELY: The Adventures of Jane Lee.= With four
illustrations by S. E. WALLER.
7. =ROSINE, & SISTER LOUISE.= With four illustrations by G. P.
JACOMB-HOOD.
8. =KATE COVENTRY.= With four Illustrations by LUCY E. KEMP-WELCH.
9. =ROY’S WIFE.= With four Illustrations by G. P. JACOMB-HOOD.
10. =THE GLADIATORS: A Tale of Rome and Judæa.= With four
illustrations by J. AMBROSE WALTON.
11. =HOLMBY HOUSE: A Tale of Old Northamptonshire.= With four
illustrations by LUCY E. KEMP-WELCH.
LONDON: WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD.
NEW LIBRARY EDITION OF
Henry Kingsley’s Novels.
EDITED BY CLEMENT K. SHORTER.
_Well printed on good paper, from type specially cast. Neatly and
handsomely bound. Illustrated by eminent artists. Cloth gilt, =3s. 6d.=
per volume._
PRESS OPINIONS.
“To Mr. Clement Shorter and to the publishers the unreserved thanks
of the public are warmly due. There can be no finer mission from the
world of fiction to the world of fact than the putting forth of these
ennobling novels afresh and in a fitting form.”--_Daily Chronicle._
“To renew your acquaintance with Henry Kingsley is for Henry Kingsley
to stand forth victorious all along the line. His work, in truth, is
moving and entertaining now as it was moving and entertaining thirty
odd years ago.”--_Pall Mall Gazette._
1. =THE RECOLLECTIONS OF GEOFFRY HAMLYN.= With a Photogravure
Portrait of Henry Kingsley, and a Memoir by CLEMENT K. SHORTER.
Illustrated by HERBERT RAILTON.
2. =RAVENSHOE.= With Frontispiece by R. CATON WOODVILLE.
3. =THE HILLYARS AND THE BURTONS.= With a note on Old Chelsea Church
by CLEMENT K. SHORTER. Illustrated by HERBERT RAILTON.
4. =SILCOTE OF SILCOTES.= With Frontispiece by LANCELOT SPEED.
5. =STRETTON.= With Frontispiece by GEORGE M. HENTON.
6. =AUSTIN ELLIOT=, and =THE HARVEYS.= With Frontispiece by WALTER
PAGET.
7. =MDLLE. MATHILDE.= With Frontispiece by HOLLAND TRINGHAM.
8. =OLD MARGARET=, and =Other Stories.= With a Frontispiece by ROBERT
SAUBER.
9. =VALENTIN=, and =NUMBER SEVENTEEN.= With a Frontispiece by R.
CATON WOODVILLE.
10. =OAKSHOTT CASTLE=, and =THE GRANGE GARDEN.= With a Frontispiece
by W. H. OVEREND.
11. =REGINALD HETHEREGE=, and =LEIGHTON COURT.= With a Frontispiece
by GORDON BROWNE.
12. =THE BOY IN GREY=, and =Other Stories.= With a Frontispiece by A.
FORESTIER.
LONDON: WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD.
Novels by Joseph Hocking.
_CROWN 8vo, CLOTH GILT, =3s. 6d.= EACH._
(EACH VOLUME UNIFORM.)
THOUGH Mr. JOSEPH HOCKING’S novels have been (by the _Spectator_)
compared to Mr. BARING-GOULD’S and (by the _Star_) to Mr. THOMAS
HARDY’S--next to whom it placed him as a writer of country life--and
by other journals to Mr. HALL CAINE and Mr. ROBERT BUCHANAN, they are,
one and all, stamped with striking and original individuality. Bold
in conception, pure in tone, strenuously high and earnest in purpose,
daring in thought, picturesque and life-like in description, worked out
with singular power and in nervous and vigorous language, it is not to
be wondered at that Mr. HOCKING’S novels are eagerly awaited by a large
and ever increasing public.
=WEAPONS OF MYSTERY.=
With Frontispiece and Vignette.
=FIELDS OF FAIR RENOWN.=
With Frontispiece and Vignette by J. BARNARD DAVIS.
=ALL MEN ARE LIARS.=
With Frontispiece and Vignette by GORDON BROWNE.
=ISHMAEL PENGELLY: An Outcast.=
With Frontispiece and Vignette by W. S. STACEY.
=THE STORY OF ANDREW FAIRFAX.=
With Frontispiece and Vignette by GEO. HUTCHINSON.
=JABEZ EASTERBROOK.=
With Frontispiece and Vignette by STANLEY L. WOOD.
=ZILLAH.=
With Frontispiece by POWELL CHASE.
=THE MONK OF MAR-SABA.=
With Frontispiece and Vignette by W. S. STACEY.
LONDON: WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD.
WORKS BY
E. Phillips Oppenheim
[Illustration]
_Crown 8vo, Cloth Gilt, =3s. 6d.=_
THE MAN AND HIS KINGDOM.
Illustrated by J. AMBROSE WALTON.
A stirring romance of modern communism and political intrigue, in
which the author has brought his peculiar skill in the weaving of
sensational incident to bear upon a plot and a _Scenario_, which
might have fascinated ANTHONY HOPE himself.
MYSTERIOUS MR. SABIN.
Illustrated by J. AMBROSE WALTON.
“One of the brightest and best managed yarns we have read for many a
day. We can recommend Mr. SABIN to all who like a thoroughly robust
mystery tale.”--_Sheffield Independent._
“A distinctly clever and interesting story of state-craft and
intrigue.... Full of dramatic incidents and surprises.”--_St. James’s
Gazette._
AS A MAN LIVES.
Illustrated by STANLEY L. WOOD.
“If you feel the need of a stimulant of this kind (an exciting
story), I can recommend you a singularly stirring sensational
novel.”--_Truth._
“A deeply interesting volume. The story is a strangely exciting
one.”--_Manchester Courier._
_Crown 8vo, Picture Wrapper, =1s.=_
FALSE EVIDENCE.
A leading London playwright applied for permission to dramatise this
story, and the thrilling character of the plot has proved so popular
that several large editions have been called for.
_Demy 8vo, Wrapper, =6d.=_
THE PEER AND THE WOMAN.
A most exciting story, which is so thrilling that it is impossible
to lay down the book until finished. The mystery thickens with each
succeeding chapter, and it is not until the very last that the clever
plot is revealed.
LONDON: WARD, LOCK & Co., LTD.
_You cannot beat the Best._
THE
WINDSOR MAGAZINE
.. Always contains the ..
BEST WORK BY THE
.. BEST AUTHORS ..
AND BEST ARTISTS.
It has eclipsed every other Sixpenny Magazine, and has achieved the
most Brilliant Success of the day.
Holds the Record for giving the =Best Serial Story of the Year=.
Holds the Record for giving =Splendid Exclusive Articles= by
recognised specialists.
Holds the Record for being the =Most Varied=, the =Most
Entertaining=, and the =Most Instructive= of Magazines.
The “Times” calls it “Wonderful.”
LONDON: WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD.
FOOTNOTES:
[A] The _Daily Chronicle_ has since investigated this and conclusively
proved it to be a fable. It seems that human excellence still has
altitudes to scale.
[B] It should be noted that at the Oval it is invariably “a crowd.” At
Lord’s it is correct to say “a company.”
[C] This incident of the toss seems so impossible that in the nature
of things it ought to be quite true. As a matter of fact, it is
quite true, having actually come within the writer’s experience.
Artistically, though, the accident of its occurrence makes it neither
the more defensible nor the less incredible. Art ought not to subscribe
to the Press Association.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized or underlined text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Emboldened text is surrounded by equals signs: =bold=.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.