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1. Preface
a. What Does DevOps Mean to the Authors?
b. How to Use This Book
i. Conceptual Topics
c. Conventions Used in This Book
d. Using Code Examples
e. O’Reilly Online Learning
f. How to Contact Us
g. Acknowledgments
i. Noah
ii. Kennedy
iii. Alfredo
iv. Grig
2. 1. Python Essentials for DevOps

a. Installing and Running Python

i. The Python Shell

ii. Jupyter Notebooks

b. Procedural Programming
i. Variables
ii. Basic Math
iii. Comments
 iv. Built-in Functions
v. Print
vi. Range
c. Execution Control

i. if/elif/else
ii. for Loops
d. while Loops
e. Handling Exceptions
f. Built-in Objects
i. What Is an Object?
ii. Object Methods and Attributes
iii. Sequences

g. Functions

i. Anatomy of a Function
ii. Functions as Objects
iii. Anonymous Functions

h. Using Regular Expressions

i. Searching
ii. Character Sets
iii. Character Classes
iv. Groups
v. Named Groups
 vi. Find All
vii. Find Iterator
viii. Substitution
ix. Compiling
i. Lazy Evaluation
i. Generators
ii. Generator Comprehensions

j. More IPython Features

i. Using IPython to Run Unix Shell Commands

k. Exercises
3. 2. Automating Files and the Filesystem
a. Reading and Writing Files
b. Using Regular Expressions to Search Text
c. Dealing with Large Files
d. Encrypting Text

i. Hashing with Hashlib

ii. Encryption with Cryptography

e. The os Module
f. Managing Files and Directories Using os.path
g. Walking Directory Trees Using os.walk
h. Paths as Objects with Pathlib

4. 3. Working with the Command Line

 a. Working with the Shell
i. Talking to the Interpreter with the sys Module
ii. Dealing with the Operating System Using the os
Module
iii. Spawn Processes with the subprocess Module
b. Creating Command-Line Tools

i. Using sys.argv
ii. Using argparse
iii. Using click
iv. fire
v. Implementing Plug-ins

c. Case Study: Turbocharging Python with Command-

Line Tools
i. Using the Numba Just-in-Time (JIT) Compiler
ii. Using the GPU with CUDA Python
iii. Running True Multicore Multithreaded Python
Using Numba
iv. KMeans Clustering

d. Exercises
5. 4. Useful Linux Utilities
a. Disk Utilities

i. Measuring Performance
ii. Partitions
 iii. Retrieving Specific Device Information
b. Network Utilities
i. SSH Tunneling
ii. Benchmarking HTTP with Apache Benchmark
(ab)
iii. Load Testing with molotov

c. CPU Utilities
i. Viewing Processes with htop
d. Working with Bash and ZSH

i. Customizing the Python Shell

ii. Recursive Globbing
iii. Searching and Replacing with Confirmation
Prompts
iv. Removing Temporary Python Files
v. Listing and Filtering Processes
vi. Unix Timestamp

e. Mixing Python with Bash and ZSH

i. Random Password Generator
ii. Does My Module Exist?
iii. Changing Directories to a Module’s Path
iv. Converting a CSV File to JSON
f. Python One-Liners

i. Debuggers
 ii. How Fast Is this Snippet?
g. strace
h. Exercises
i. Case Study Question
6. 5. Package Management
a. Why Is Packaging Important?

i. When Packaging Might Not Be Needed

b. Packaging Guidelines

i. Descriptive Versioning
ii. The changelog
c. Choosing a Strategy
d. Packaging Solutions

i. Native Python Packaging

ii. Debian Packaging
iii. RPM Packaging

e. Management with systemd

i. Long-Running Processes
ii. Setting It Up
iii. The systemd Unit File

f. Installing the Unit

i. Log Handling

g. Exercises
 h. Case Study Question
7. 6. Continuous Integration and Continuous Deployment
a. Real-World Case Study: Converting a Poorly
Maintained WordPress Site to Hugo
i. Setting Up Hugo
ii. Converting WordPress to Hugo Posts
iii. Creating an Algolia Index and Updating It
iv. Orchestrating with a Makefile
v. Deploying with AWS CodePipeline

b. Real-World Case Study: Deploying a Python App

Engine Application with Google Cloud Build
c. Real-World Case Study: NFSOPS

8. 7. Monitoring and Logging

a. Key Concepts in Building Reliable Systems

b. Immutable DevOps Principles
i. Centralized Logging
ii. Case Study: Production Database Kills Hard
Drives
iii. Did You Build It or Buy It?
iv. Fault Tolerance

c. Monitoring

i. Graphite
ii. StatsD
 iii. Prometheus
d. Instrumentation

i. Naming Conventions

e. Logging
i. Why Is It Hard?
ii. The basicconfig
iii. Deeper Configuration
iv. Common Patterns
f. The ELK Stack

i. Logstash
ii. Elasticsearch and Kibana

g. Exercises
h. Case Study Question
9. 8. Pytest for DevOps

a. Testing Superpowers with pytest

b. Getting Started with pytest

i. Testing with pytest

ii. Differences with unittest
c. pytest Features

i. conftest.py
ii. The Amazing assert
iii. Parametrization
 d. Fixtures

i. Getting Started
ii. Built-in Fixtures
e. Infrastructure Testing

i. What Is System Validation?

ii. Introduction to Testinfra
iii. Connecting to Remote Nodes
iv. Features and Special Fixtures

f. Examples
g. Testing Jupyter Notebooks with pytest
h. Exercises
i. Case Study Question
10. 9. Cloud Computing

a. Cloud Computing Foundations

b. Types of Cloud Computing
c. Types of Cloud Services

i. Infrastructure as a Service
ii. Metal as a Service
iii. Platform as a Service
iv. Serverless Computing
v. Software as a Service

d. Infrastructure as Code
 e. Continuous Delivery
f. Virtualization and Containers

i. Hardware Virtualization
ii. Software Defined Networks
iii. Software Defined Storage
iv. Containers

g. Challenges and Opportunities in Distributed

Computing
h. Python Concurrency, Performance, and Process
Management in the Cloud Era
i. Process Management

i. Manage Processes with Subprocess

ii. Using Multiprocessing to Solve Problems
iii. Forking Processes with Pool()
iv. Function as a Service and Serverless
v. High Performance Python with Numba
vi. Using Numba Just in Time Compiler
vii. Using High-Performance Servers

j. Conclusion
k. Exercises
l. Case Study Questions
11. 10. Infrastructure as Code

a. A Classification of Infrastructure Automation Tools

 b. Manual Provisioning
c. Automated Infrastructure Provisioning with
Terraform

i. Provisioning an S3 Bucket
ii. Provisioning an SSL Certificate with AWS ACM
iii. Provisioning an Amazon CloudFront Distribution
iv. Provisioning a Route 53 DNS Record
v. Copying Static Files to S3
vi. Deleting All AWS Resources Provisioned with
Terraform

d. Automated Infrastructure Provisioning with Pulumi

i. Creating a New Pulumi Python Project for AWS
ii. Creating Configuration Values for the Staging
Stack
iii. Provisioning an ACM SSL Certificate
iv. Provisioning a Route 53 Zone and DNS Records
v. Provisioning a CloudFront Distribution
vi. Provisioning a Route 53 DNS Record for the Site
URL
vii. Creating and Deploying a New Stack
e. Exercises
12. 11. Container Technologies: Docker and Docker Compose

a. What Is a Docker Container?

 b. Creating, Building, Running, and Removing Docker
Images and Containers
c. Publishing Docker Images to a Docker Registry
d. Running a Docker Container with the Same Image on
a Different Host
e. Running Multiple Docker Containers with Docker
Compose
f. Porting the docker-compose Services to a New Host
and Operating System
g. Exercises
13. 12. Container Orchestration: Kubernetes
a. Short Overview of Kubernetes Concepts
b. Using Kompose to Create Kubernetes Manifests from
docker-compose.yaml
c. Deploying Kubernetes Manifests to a Local
Kubernetes Cluster Based on minikube
d. Launching a GKE Kubernetes Cluster in GCP with
Pulumi
e. Deploying the Flask Example Application to GKE
f. Installing Prometheus and Grafana Helm Charts
g. Destroying the GKE Cluster
h. Exercises

14. 13. Serverless Technologies

a. Deploying the Same Python Function to the “Big

Three” Cloud Providers
 i. Installing Serverless Framework
ii. Deploying Python Function to AWS Lambda
iii. Deploying Python Function to Google Cloud
Functions
iv. Deploying Python Function to Azure
b. Deploying a Python Function to Self-Hosted FaaS
Platforms

i. Deploying Python Function to OpenFaaS

c. Provisioning DynamoDB Table, Lambda Functions,

and API Gateway Methods Using the AWS CDK
d. Exercises
15. 14. MLOps and Machine learning Engineering

a. What Is Machine Learning?

i. Supervised Machine Learning

ii. Modeling
b. Python Machine learning Ecosystem

i. Deep Learning with PyTorch

c. Cloud Machine learning Platforms
d. Machine learning Maturity Model

i. Machine Learning Key Terminology

ii. Level 1: Framing, Scope Identification, and
Problem Definition
iii. Level 2: Continuous Delivery of Data
iv. Level 3: Continuous Delivery of Clean Data
 v. Level 4: Continuous Delivery of Exploratory Data
Analysis
vi. Level 5: Continuous Delivery of Traditional ML
and AutoML
vii. Level 6: ML Operational Feedback Loop
e. Sklearn Flask with Kubernetes and Docker
f. Sklearn Flask with Kubernetes and Docker
i. EDA
ii. Modeling
iii. Tune Scaled GBM
iv. Fit Model
v. Evaluate
vi. adhoc_predict
vii. JSON Workflow
viii. Scale Input
ix. adhoc_predict from Pickle
x. Scale Input
g. Exercises
h. Case Study Question
i. Learning Assessments
16. 15. Data Engineering
a. Small Data

i. Dealing with Small Data Files

Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
an art that soured the uninvited for an hour. It was remarkable how
promptly the whole team became occupied with other things. The
Ancient fluked H. C. wretchedly through the slips for three.
“Run it out!” they yelled, as though the match depended on it. “Go
on, Ancient! Get back, Jack! Oh, well run! Well run!”
“Come on, Dimsdale,” said the Optimist, the moment this riot
subsided. “Let us get away from these nasty, noisy cricketers, and
go into more refined society.”
“Have you noticed,” said the Pessimist to the Treasurer, “how some
men are never content unless they are sitting beside something
that’s got a frock on? Never saw the fun myself in uttering bland lies
to insipid schoolgirls, to estimate the amount of music in their ‘ohs’
and ‘reallys!’”
“Mind you men bat your very best,” said the Optimist, as we
departed, “then perhaps Grace Trentham’ll send for some of you.
Never know your luck, you know, do you?”
“How gaudy!” growled the Secretary. “Great encouragement to get
runs.”
I felt this to be a moment of my middling unilluminated life. But to
show the Goddess that Nature had designed me to support her
favours with due dignity, and, therefore, that her confidence in me
was not in the least degree misplaced, I strove to walk modestly in
my public decorations. As we went to the coach the pent-up
enthusiasm of the Optimist broke forth.
“Tell you what, old chap,” he said, “she’s quite the jolliest girl I know.
One of the sort you read about, you know. No end of a fine girl, I
can tell you. Not a bit o’ side and small talk, and Society manner,
and that sort o’ rot. Awfully good people too, the Trenthams. By
Jove! old chap, if I could only bat like you! If I’d only got your
confidence, and your nerve, and your wrist!”
“It’s awfully good of you, old man,” I said, with a touch of
complacency, I fear, “to bring me along and give me a show, when
you might have kept her all to yourself.”
“Not at all,” said he. “Sent me to fetch you, you know. Besides, you
sat there looking so deuced chippy that it struck us that you ought
to be made to buck up a bit.”
“H’m! Ah! yes!” I murmured.
The Optimist was one of the hopelessly good sorts of the world, but
he never did know when to leave off. He should have remembered
that a woman’s admiration is one thing, but that her pity is quite
another. But, then again, how like the good old Optimist to neglect
his own opportunities! He was not altogether blind to that side of
the question, though, since he said feelingly,—
“She says that Elphinstone and Carteret are staying at the Rectory
with her father.”
“Well,” said I, with the brutal directness of the average man,
“Carteret happens to be married, and I saw in the World last week
that Elphinstone’s just got engaged.”
“That a fact!” he cried, with a fervour that gave him away.
I regret to say that I laughed to myself in a cynical manner.
“Grace, this is Mr. Dimsdale, whom you saw batting just now,” said
the Optimist, as we halted under the drag. “Dimsdale, Miss
Trentham, whose brother got you leg before.”
“Awful fluke it was, too,” said the coach’s fair occupant frankly, in the
act of bowing; and then added, “How do you? Won’t you come up?
Heaps of room, and you’ll see ever so much better.”
As she looked down at us, and we looked up at her, I discovered
with alarming suddenness that Miss Grace Trentham had a pair of
eyes of remarkable beauty, large and clear, and very blue, indeed,
with long dark lashes drooping on her cheeks. She had also the
colouring that one only sees in the English girl grown in the open air.
In itself it was a pastoral, as sweet as a mown hayfield in a sunny
June. It was of the purest light brown, not quite dark enough for
chestnut, but, as I happen to be a promising batsman, and not a
budding novelist, I am utterly at a loss to describe exactly the kind
of tint I mean. Therefore, you must excuse my limitations,
particularly as you may find me playing for the County one day, if I
confess that the utmost my literary art can do for Miss Grace
Trentham’s skin is to say that it most resembled in the richness of its
hue a cup of strong tea with plenty of thick cream in it. She had
heavy coils of hair of a similar baffling shade, and a mischievous curl
or two that made her eyebrows laugh. She was an early-morning
girl, English to the bone, and clean and limber as a thorough-bred. I
should not have suspected her of afterthoughts, and do not doubt
that had I asked her what her opinion was of “Treasure Island,” she
would have said without the slightest hesitation, “Oh, isn’t it just
ripping!”
When on her invitation we climbed to the seats beside her, we found
that she was scoring with a diligence as wonderful as it was artistic.
She had two fountain pens—one of black ink, to put down the runs;
the other of red, to take the bowling analysis.
“Awfully jolly pleased, Mr. Dimsdale, to see you out so soon,” she
said.
“Oh!” said I; my jaw fell.
“You were shaping a great deal too well, you know,” she added.
My jaw resumed its normal position.
“You played Charlie like a book,” she said. “Met him before?”
“Oh, no,” I said briskly.
“Then you batted real well,” she said. “For Charlie’s the best bowler
in England now that Tom Richardson’s stale. He’s top of the averages
this week. One hundred and fifty-five wickets for 13·83, and he’s
certain to get another fifty before the season’s done. At Lord’s he
fairly had Oxford on toast; they were in a frightful funk.”
“Yes, yes,” I groaned; feebly adding to cover my distress, “what one
would call the bluest of the blue, Miss Trentham.”
Miss Trentham transfixed me with a look of whimsical enquiry. Then
she said quickly: “Oh, I’m so sorry I didn’t notice your cap. Why
weren’t you there to stop the rot? And why didn’t you get your blue
when you were up? They only gave you a show in the Freshers’.”
“Nothing near good enough,” I said humbly. But how the deuce did
she know that I’d only had a show in the Freshers’? I had yet to
learn that her full family title was Grace, the Walking Wisden,
because she was so well grounded in that indispensable work that
she could repeat even its advertisements by heart.
“’Would be now, Grace, don’t you think?” said the friendly Optimist.
“Ra-ther. His style’s O. K. He watches the ball, too.”
“But it’s such a beautiful wicket,” said I. “You can play forward at
anything.”
“It is a good wicket,” she said, “but I could see you watching Charlie
all the way. And that’s where ’Varsity bats generally fail, don’t you
know. Seen dozens of ’em, blues too, and wonderful school
reputations, and all that, regular ‘lions on lawns.’ Put on ’em a
Burroughes and Watts’, and they’ll play like the Badminton. But just
let the wicket begin to ‘talk’ a bit, then it’s another story. Let me see,
were you not in the Winchester eleven?”
“Yes,” I said; “just got in.”
“You must have been well coached. I do like to see a man look at
the ball. Oh, was that a hit? No; byes. Dear! dear! Edgcome is a
dreadful muff behind the sticks. Can’t take Charlie at all. Why don’t
he stand back farther? Or why don’t they have a long-stop? All right,
umpire!”
The umpire having waved his finger to signal the byes, the scorer
waved hers to show that she had got them.
“Forty up!” she called down to the small boy who was attending to
“the telegraph.” “It’s about time we had another wicket, don’t you
think?”
“We are all serene at present,” said the Optimist cheerily. “I think
Halliday’s about played himself in, and there’s no man better worth
watching when he takes root. Oh! very pretty, Jack. Run ’em out!”
He had just got one of H. C.’s fastest away for three. A frown
clouded the open countenance of Miss Grace.
“Toddles,” she cried to the Rev. E. J. H. Elphinstone, who was
nearest to us in the out-field, “just tell Charlie to tell George to take
one of those men out of the slips and put him for the draw. Oh, and
Toddles, tell him not too deep to save the single. We’re going to give
nothing away if I can help it.”
“Why do they call him Toddles?” said I.
“’Cause his legs are so short,” she said curtly. “Oh, and just look
where he’s got his mid-on. Toddles, tell him his mid-on wants to be
straighter. George may be a good old sort, and all that, but he’s no
more fit to be captain than he is to play for England. But I should
have thought Archie would have known better.”
As I was at pains to subsequently explain to those members of our
side who were not privileged to be sitting beside Miss Grace
Trentham, it was a most fascinating thing to observe her conducting
a highly technical and animated conversation, ordering a team of
county cricketers about with some caustic comments on the same,
scoring every run, taking the analysis, and keeping her eye on the
small boy, “the telegraph,” and all the fine points of the game.
“Mr. Dimsdale,” she said, after Captain George had carried out the
sedulously conveyed commands of his sister, “Mr. Dimsdale, what
were you about, to get out to a long hop of my young brother
Tom’s? He can’t bowl a little bit. No length no spin, no break, no
devil, no anything. Plain as print! Over-confidence, perhaps?”
“I’m afraid it was,” I confessed.
“Great pity,” she said reflectively. “I should rather have liked you to
stay a bit; you’d have been worth looking at. And I’ve just got my
doubts about that decision. L B W to left arm round is always a bit
fishy, isn’t it? Not, you know, that I’m at all sorry that you’re out. I’m
Hickory, of course, and all that, although I do like to see a man play
the game. You see, I’m sorry and I’m not sorry. Oh, hang it! I can’t
explain it!”
Both the Optimist and I had the ill manners to smile with some
breadth. But the solecism was worth committing, if only for the sake
of observing the gleam of envy that ran along the row of cricketers
on the pavilion front. Weren’t we enjoying ourselves! And they could
have been so much farther from the mark. I might never have been
leg before in my life.
“’Mustn’t get over-confident, you know, if you’re going to make a
first-rater,” Miss Grace said authoritatively; “great mistake. But I
believe you were not so very confident when you first went in. In
fact, I thought you were just—just a wee bit nervous. I wouldn’t
have minded betting a shilling that Charlie did you first over. Weren’t
you a bit nervous?”
“Oh dear, no,” I said, resenting the imputation with great robustness.
“I’m never nervous.”
She was evidently a young person of the most horrible penetration.
What could have put these ideas into her mind?
“Don’t you think,” she said suddenly, “that my young brother Tom
would get on better if he took to playing marbles? His bowling is
dreadfully awful, isn’t it?”
“Of course it’s not so good as your brother Charlie’s,” I said
diplomatically.
“Thank you,” she said sardonically; “I’ll write that down. But say,
yes; I do want you to say, yes.”
“Why?”
“Well, you see, I maintain in the face of all my people that it is
absolute rubbish. They all think he’s rather good for a boy. They say
at Harrow that he’s going to make another Dowson. But if that’s so,
it don’t take much to make a Dowson, does it? Do, Mr. Dimsdale,
please say that you think it’s awful rot. It is, you know, really. And
the amount of side that boy’s got on is something extraordinary. He
might be the Old Man himself. Thinks himself no end of a swell
’cause he’s diddled a few schoolboys with his donkey-drops. Never
saw such a length in my life. Why don’t George shunt him and give
Billington a try?”
Even as she spoke the captain, who was now thoroughly set, was
seen to gather himself for a great effort. At last he ventured to have
a go at this severely criticised slow bowler. Up and up went the ball a
remarkable height, and, to the horror of the Optimist and myself, we
saw that it must drop into the hands of the little parson just below
us on the boundary. We both held our breaths in a spasm of
suspense, but Miss Grace seemed as happy as possible.
“It’s all right,” she said cheerfully; “Toddles’ll have him. He never
drops anything he can get to; and he’s judging this to a ‘T.’ What a
height it is, though, and deceptive, too! He’ll have to go back a bit
now.”
Next instant a derisive howl broke from the crowd. The little parson,
famed the whole of England over for his brilliancy and certainty at
third man and in the country, having slightly misjudged the flight
and height of the catch, had had to go back in a hurry at the last
moment, with the result that his hands and body were in a very
overbalanced kind of position in which to receive the ball. He had
failed to hold it.
“Oh, Toddles! Toddles!” cried Miss Grace, in agonized accents; “what
are you doing?”
The relief of the Optimist and myself was such that we must have
hugged one another had we not been in a place so public. Poor Miss
Grace, though, was perfectly crimson with mortification, and we
could fairly hear the tears in her voice as she said with a sublime
pathos, “He’ll get a hundred now!”
 CHAPTER VII
Conversational
“I ’LL never forgive that wretched Toddles!” said Miss Grace. “It was
careless of him. It’s inexcusable for a county man to drop anything.
The little brute!”
“But, my dear Grace,” said the Optimist, kind soul, who looked at
everything from a humanitarian standpoint, “the best men are liable
to err.”
“They shouldn’t be,” said Miss Grace fiercely, “with the practice they
get.”
“But human nature is fallible,” urged the Optimist gently.
“I don’t care a pin about human nature!” said Miss Grace, more
fiercely than ever. “What’s human nature got to do with cricket? Did
that miserable Toddles drop that catch, or did he not? It’s simply
disgraceful. I hate slovenly fielding.”
“It was a very difficult catch, though,” said the Optimist, still doing
his best for the fallen favourite. “Awful lot of spin on, and look at the
height; besides, the sun was in his eyes, and the flight must have
been dreadfully deceptive.”
“I don’t care about the spin,” said the inexorable Miss Grace, “or the
height, or the flight, or the light, or the sight, or the anything.
Toddles ought to have had that catch. Jimmy Douglas ’ud have had
it in his mouth. And if your Captain does get a hundred, I’ll give that
wretched Toddles such a talking to as he won’t forget in a hurry. You
can laugh, Mr. Dimsdale. It’s all right for you: sixty-four and only one
wicket down. We can’t afford to give away a leg-bye on a wicket like
this.”
“But I never saw better ground-fielding than Hickory’s to-day,” said I
soothingly. Certainly their fielding as a whole had been excellent.
“They know they’ve got to field when they play for Hickory,” said
Miss Grace sternly. “They know better than to get slack. A man who
won’t field oughtn’t to be allowed to play. Every man can field if he
tries. Even poor old George has to buck up when he plays for
Hickory. He knows that I simply won’t have it. He daren’t funk a
single one; and he has to get down to ’em with both hands,
rheumatism or no rheumatism. I’ll have none of his Artillery tricks.
Gave him an hour’s practice this morning before we started, and by
the time he’s been here a month he’ll be quite a reformed character.
Look, he’s positively energetic. Did you see his smart return. He
knows I’m watching him. Well fielded, George!”
As her clear voice rang out, the face of every one of the eleven
fielders lit up with a smile.
“That seems to please them,” said I slyly. “I suppose you must be
very chary with praise.”
“I have to be,” she said. “They take an awful lot of bringing to the
scratch. George says I’m a regular martinet; and my young brother
Tom says I’m a confounded nuisance. But that’s his cheek, of
course; he’s an unlicked cub, don’t you see; he’s got to go through
the mill yet. Do you know, Cheery [this apparently was a name of
her own for the Optimist], that I can’t stand these schoolboys at all.
My young brother Tom had quite a nice little way of bringing two or
three of the Harrow eleven, and one or two other men of light and
leading from the other schools, down to the Vicarage. Talk about
‘side,’ I never saw anything like it. They wanted a Wisden all to
themselves; and to hear ’em talk you’d have thought that Stoddy
meant taking ’em all out with him in the autumn. They thought
Archie’s batting was ‘not so bad,’ and Charlie’s bowling ‘rather
decent’; but what a pity it was that I hadn’t seen Comery of Eton,
and Prospect of Charterhouse. And they wouldn’t have a few on our
lawn because they thought it a bad thing for their style. Style,
indeed! their style consists in jolly well going forward to every jolly
thing. And they didn’t bowl ’cause it was too much fag; and there
wasn’t much fun in fielding. I told my old guv’nor pretty straight that
they’d have to clear out; and they had to. And now I absolutely
refuse to have ’em. No more Harrow boys if I know it. One has to
draw the line somewhere, hasn’t one? Not that my young brother
Tom is half a bad sort, really. Of course his side is something
dazzling; but when he’s been from school for about a week it begins
to get some o’ the gilt chipped off it. Don’t quite do, don’t you know.
Some of those other fellows’ sisters think it just beautiful and admire
it ever so. I don’t. But I’m gradually getting my young brother Tom
to forget himself a bit. He don’t spread himself now anything like he
used to. I think we shall lick him into shape, and make a county
cricketer of him after all. But he’ll have to roll up a different sort o’
length to that. ’Nother boundary. Halliday only wants two more for
his fifty. Eighty up, boy. Hullo! I see Archie’s beginning to look a bit
prickly. Doesn’t suit his book at all. Oh, they’re going to change the
bowling at last, are they? Dear me, what intelligence! Who are they
putting on? What, Swipes, with his awful stuff! If they really want
’em to get runs why don’t they put on Toddles? What with their
fielding, and their judgment, and their general knowledge o’ the
game, they’re simply giving this match away. Eighty-two for one;
what rot!”
Miss Grace’s annoyance was increasing in company with the score.
As the sting was extracted from Hickory’s bowling, and it came in for
severer punishment, she grew particularly caustic in her criticisms.
And the greater her anger, the greater her frankness, till presently
she became a real delight to sit and listen to. Before long the
Optimist and I were holding our sides for simple mirth.
“I don’t wonder at it,” she said; “must be no end of a joke to you to
see ’em tossing up this sort of ‘tosh.’ And their fielding, too. Just look
at the wicket-keeper; why will he keep snapping ’em, instead of
waiting and taking ’em gently, like McGregor? There, that’s Halliday’s
fifty; I know he’ll get his hundred. But don’t cheer, please. Look at
the luck he’s had. It’s too bad of that wretched Toddles!”
Poor Miss Grace was almost tearful when her mind reverted to that
catastrophe. There was undoubtedly a rod in pickle for the hapless
Elphinstone.
“Ninety up. Really this is too bad!” cried she. “Charlie’s going off
now; had a pretty long spell, too. But they’ve only got thirty-one off
him.”
“Fine bowler, isn’t he?” I said, trying to pour oil on the troubled
waters; “but he’s had no luck this morning. Grand built chap as well.”
“Could do with a bit more head though,” said his censorious sister,
who seemed so severe a critic that it struck me that it was a pity the
Athenæum did not know about her. She would have given the
sprouting novelists and spring poets some talkings-to!
Runs were coming now with exhilarating frequency. The Captain was
beginning to score all round the wicket, off anything they liked to
send him. There was no more dangerous or resourceful bat in
England when once he got his eye in. The Ancient, too, was moving
steadily in the direction of his fifty. It would be idle to insist that he
had a pleasing style; indeed, he did not appear to have a style of
any kind. He had no physique, and you might watch him get a
hundred, and then wonder how he’d got them, as he hadn’t a single
stroke worthy of the name. But there was no man on the side who
got runs with such striking regularity; and when the meteors and
comets had appeared and disappeared, this ordinary fixed star was
still at the wickets, cocking ’em under his leg for two and sneaking
short ones. From time immemorial he had done the same. He had
played oftener in Little Clumpton v. Hickory than any of the giants of
the past, and with such an honourable distinction that the aggregate
of his runs greatly excelled that of anybody else. How far back in
antiquity the Ancient had first enjoyed his being, history never could
determine. In the Little Clumpton v. Hickory of twenty years ago,
when the Ancient made 64 not out, and pulled the match out of the
fire, tradition said that he looked even older than he looked to-day;
and his manner was so perennially youthful, too, that it was not until
he took his cap off, that one would have guessed he was a patriarch.
Men might come and men might go, but he went on for ever.
“Hundred and ten up,” called Miss Grace.
“How many’s Oldknow got?” the Optimist inquired.
“Why, he’s actually got thirty-three!” she said, in a startled tone.
“How has he got them? I’m waiting to see him make a decent
stroke. But he don’t edge ’em, and he don’t fluke ’em, and he don’t
give chances, and he don’t look as though they’ll bowl him in a year.
Thirty-three? Isn’t it marvellous? He can’t bat a bit, though, can he?”
“Oh no, not a bit,” said I; “at least, that’s what everybody says. No
one ever thinks anything of Oldknow’s batting, but if there’s runs to
be got Oldknow always considers it his duty to get ’em. For the last
ten years his average for Little Clumpton has panned out at forty-six,
and since he gets steadily better as his hair gets whiter, by the
middle of next century he will have worked it up to something over
sixty. He’ll still be going in first wicket down and coming out last but
one. He won’t go in first, a place for which Nature certainly designed
him, as he abhors ostentation of any kind. That is why he so
carefully refrains from making strokes that are at all likely to appeal
to the eye of the multitude. There, he’s popped one under his leg for
another two.”
“Isn’t it perfectly atrocious?” said Miss Grace indignantly. “Why does
he do it?”
“To bring his score up to thirty-five,” said the Optimist, “without the
crowd suspecting that he’s got so many. If they were to applaud
him, they’d put him off his game.”
“I wish they would, then,” said Miss Grace cruelly. “Why don’t
somebody bowl him? the little horror! There, did you see him snick
that one away for another single? That makes him thirty-six. It’s
positively wicked of him. I wonder how a silly point would affect
him?”
“Every low dodge of that kind has been tried and found wanting
years ago,” said the Optimist.
Miss Grace grew pensive for a moment.
“I have it!” she cried. “I’ll tell Charlie, if he’s still in at lunch, to go on
again at the top end, and pitch short and bump ’em. If Charlie hit
him over the heart about four times, that might give him pause,
don’t you think?”
“I doubt it,” said I; “unless Charlie happens to be a Maxim gun.”
 CHAPTER VIII
A Cricket Lunch
WHEN the bell rang for luncheon at half-past one, the score-sheet
was pretty reading:—
First Innings of Little Clumpton.
H. J. Halliday, not out 98
R. C. Dimsdale, lbw b T. S. M. Trentham 7
J. F. S. Oldknow, not out 46
Extras 14
——
Total for 1 wicket 165
As the players came trooping in from the field, pangs of sadness
overtook both the Optimist and me, for we knew that for the present
our right good time was at an end. We were condemned to go and
lunch in the stuffy marquee, among the wasps and bad speeches.
But I had failed to allow for the particular talent of the Optimist. He
is a man who is certain to make his mark in diplomacy one day. His
eye had observed a pretty substantial hamper on the roof of the
coach.
“Pity us, Grace,” said he appealingly, as we prepared to descend.
“We’ve got to spend the next hour in that ‘Inferno,’ fishing flies out
of the salad and ‘hearing, hearing’ the Earl’s annual, ‘Gentlemen, I
can assure you that this auspicious occasion is one of the proudest
moments of my—er—er—life.’ Pity us, Grace!”
“I do, old chap,” said Grace, very earnestly. “But you needn’t, you
know. That is, if you can stand sandwiches and ginger beer. There’s
lots here, in the hamper. Oh! and I think there’s a bottle of fizz.”
“It’s really too good of you,” said the Optimist. But Miss Grace was
so prompt in her attempt to pull forth the hamper in question from
under the seat that our thanks, scruples, and retreat were all alike
submerged in the assistance we felt bound to lend her.
“What a weight it is!” said I. “There must be enough for both teams
here.”
“I believe in being prepared for emergencies,” said she. “Feed ’em, I
say. A man that can’t eat’s no good for cricket. And there’s certain to
be some of the boys along presently. Hullo! here’s Charlie, for one.
Don’t he look awfully sorry for himself, poor old chap! That’s ’cause
he’s got no wickets. Buck up, Charlie!”
The best bowler in England climbed up on to the roof.
“Now then, Grace,” said he briskly. “Keep ’em from that fizz. Two of
your beef-slabs round, mind, before that’s touched. That’s for
dessert. Brightside, I should recommend you to stick to Caley. I’m
certain to bowl you neck and heels if you don’t.”
“Same as you’ve been serving ’em this morning,” said Miss Grace.
“Don’t be rude, Grace,” said he. “But give me a sandwich. Oh, I say,
and do you see which fizz you’ve brought? Whew! won’t there be a
row! You know that the Guv’nor particularly said it was not to be
touched.”
“Well, Charlie, now,” said his sister, “do you think I’d bring that
sugary stuff to give to pretty nearly a county team?—one of ’em
going out with Stoddy, too. But the Guv.’s an awful good sort, and
I’m sure he’ll see it in a proper light when I explain to him that I
couldn’t possibly give that horrid what-do-you-call-it to a team like
we’ve got to-day. Besides, he’d only have let the Bishop and the
Rural Dean have had it. I’ll take good care they don’t get it, though.
Let ’em stick to their port. Never saw such a pair of old muffs in my
life. ’Don’t know a bat from a bagpipe!” Then, as she distributed a
napkinful of the solidest beef sandwiches I ever saw, she continued
with manifest perplexity: “Do you know that I can never understand
on what principle they go on in the Church to get their preferment.
There’s Toddles, now. Look at Toddles. ’Got his Blue, plays for Kent
and the Gentlemen, and his cutting’s simply marvellous, and yet he’s
just a common curate. And then there’s my old Guv’nor. ’Don’t want
to boast, but my old Guv’nor’s—— Well, look what Lillywhite says
about him. He’d play the whole Dean and Chapter left hand with a
toothpick, and yet he don’t wear gaiters. ’Can’t reckon it up at all.
Don’t it seem ridiculous? ’specially when you come to think of the set
of old duffers who do.”
“Grace, don’t be libellous,” said the best bowler in England, with a
face of keen enjoyment. “Drop your jaw and look sharp with those
glasses.”
“May I participate in this pleasant function?” said a meek voice. The
little parson clambered on to the roof and smiled into our midst.
“Toddles!” cried Miss Grace, with a flashing eye. “How dare you!
Don’t you show your face here, you—you—you little curate! Aren’t
you thoroughly ashamed?”
“My dear Grace, I have no words in which to express my penitence,”
said the little parson, in a broken tone; but as he looked at us his
face had such a twinkle in it that I’m sure he must have been a
master of deceit.
“Oh, you haven’t!” said Miss Grace scornfully. “Well, Toddles, it’s
lucky for you that you made that score against Notts yesterday. One
can’t say exactly what’s in one’s mind to a man who’s just made a
score like that. Say you’re sorry, Toddles, and I’ll forgive you.”
“Oh, Grace! how magnanimous you are!” cried the little parson, in
throbbing accents. “I can assure you that time only will assuage my
sorrow!”
“If time don’t, stone-ginger will, and that’s a cert.,” said the
irreverent Charlie. “Try one, old man”; and the best bowler in
England poured out a Caley for the erring one.
The little parson tossed it off, and fell upon a massive sandwich with
a vigour that was in disproportion to his inches.
It was one of the liveliest cricket lunches at which I ever assisted;
and I think the heartiest. Miss Grace’s sandwiches had certainly been
designed for very punishing batsmen and terrific fast bowlers. Two
great slices of bread with a succulent chunk of beef between went to
the making of them. He who ate one had partaken of no
inconsiderable meal; he who ate two must have had an appetite of
which any man ought to have been proud. But Miss Grace herself set
us all a noble example. She fell on one of these tremendous slabs
with the courage of a lion, and had a big stone-ginger all to herself.
“Charlie,” said the little parson, “we’d better put Grace on at the top
end after lunch. She seems in great form.”
“’Wish you would,” said Grace wistfully. “I’d shift ’em. ’Just feel like
it. Pass the mustard, Mr. Dimsdale. Thanks aw’fly. Cheery, help
yourself. ’Won’t wait to be invited, will you? You’ll find some apples
underneath. Now then, Toddles, buck up! You’re not in church. Ham
or beef? ’Nother beer for Charlie.”
“If we’d only got some gin, it would improve it,” sighed England’s
best bowler.
“Mr. Dimsdale, if you’ll look in the left-hand corner, right down at the
bottom,” said Miss Grace, “you’ll find a bottle. Charlie, how dare you!
Don’t you touch that fizz. Mr. Dimsdale, I repose implicit confidence
in you.”
“Grace,” said the best bowler in England, brandishing the gin bottle,
“you’re a trump!”
“Always was,” said Miss Grace. “But it’s not until Middlesex and Kent
get beastly, jolly hungry that they think it worth their while to talk
about it.”
“Oh, you’ve got your points,” said her brother. “You do know how to
feed us. ’Seem to know exactly what we like. Your feeding’s lovely.
Look at these sandwiches; they’re a dream.”
“Two of ’em ’d be a nightmare,” said the little parson.
“For a man your size, perhaps,” Miss Grace said. “Ought to have
brought a few of those anchovy things for you. And, Toddles, I
forbid you to have gin. Sure to get into your head, you know, and
then you’d miss another catch.”
“Here, no-ball! That’s a chuck!” cried Charlie. “I’ll have Jim Phillips to
you, Grace. You don’t give the poor chap a chance.”
“Charlie, if you’re rude you’ll get no fizz.”
Miss Grace foraged in the hamper and produced two bottles of that
giddy liquid. She promptly began to unwire them, too. Disdaining
our earnest and repeated offers to withdraw the corks, she pulled
them out herself with considerable ease and neatness, saying,—
“’Daren’t trust you men with this. I’ll measure it myself, then all of us
will get a share. Hands down, Charlie. Oh, yes, I know being a
bowler’s beastly thirsty; thank you so much for reminding me. Look
alive, Mr. Dimsdale, with those glasses. You’ll find ’em wrapped up in
the Sporting Life.”
“She means The Woman at Home, in Annie S. Swan’s grand new
serial,” said the little parson, with something that bore a perilous
resemblance to a common wink.
“Go on, pile it up!” The voice of Miss Grace was more indignant than
the hissing of the fizz. “And, Toddles, I saw you. Oh, you naughty
little curate. You’d better be careful, Toddles, or I won’t work that
sweater for you. Pass that to Cheery. Don’t drink it yet. I’ve got to
propose a toast.”
When we were all furnished with a means to honour it, our hostess
insisted on our standing up along with her, whereon she held the
glass aloft, and cried in a voice pregnant with emotion:
“Here’s luck to good old Stoddy in the autumn!”
We pledged him with great fervour.
“I say, you men,” said Grace. “That went well, didn’t it? And I say,
isn’t this stuff just prime. My old guv’nor knows a thing or two. And
what price the Bishop and the Rural Dean? It’s positive extravagance
in my old guv’nor to lavish it on those old jossers. But they look like
being left, eh? Next time they’ll get the other sort, and that’ll sour
their ‘outlook,’ and their preaching won’t be quite so full of hope. But
we’d better finish it now it’s here. Fill up, and we’ll drink another.”
The second was: “Here’s luck to good old Archie of that ilk!”
This was drunk with acclamation. And the champagne still continuing
to hold out, nothing would satisfy the enthusiasm of Miss Grace but
that a third should be proposed. It was evidently pretty near her
heart, for her colour rose, her eyes sparkled, and her lips began to
tremble.
“Here’s to dear old Charlie, and may Stoddy have the sense to take
him too. And it’s a great big shame he’s not been yet invited!”
Charlie having been pushed down into an attitude of repose by main
force, we drank this more heartily than ever. And the feeling
provoked by the peculiar circumstances of the case was so extreme,
that when the gallant little parson broke out into a rousing cheer
that did an infinite amount of credit to so small a man, the rest of us
supported him in such a stentorian fashion that we attracted the
attention of the general public.
“Stow that rot!” exclaimed the best bowler in England, whose
discomposure was rather painful. “Confound you, Grace, what have
you got to play the giddy goat like this for!”
“Speech! speech!” cried Miss Grace, hugely delighted at the
condition to which she had reduced him. The great bowler grew
more embarrassed than ever.
“Now then, Charlie, buck up,” said his sister. “Don’t keep us waiting.
We can’t get on with the serious business, the sandwiches and so
forth, until you’ve acknowledged the honour that we’ve done you.
Now then, let’s see you do the thing in style. Like you used to do it
at the Union, you know. What price, old Charlie, at the Union?”
“Oh, this is all beastly bally rot,” exclaimed the great bowler most
miserably red. “Dimsdale, if you don’t stop grinning, you’ll be sorry.
Grace, I’ll get level with you, take my word. I’ll drop every bally
catch that comes, and talk about misfielding and the overthrows—I’ll
give you beans!”
Miss Grace, in her capacity as president of the feast, hammered the
hamper top with an empty stone-ginger beer bottle in a very
resolute manner, and said:
“Now then, Charlie, are you going to buck up and begin? Something
in the Earl’s style, don’t you know. ‘Unaccustomed as I am to public
speaking’ sort of thing. You know, something with a bit of class
about it, and not so much of your awfully beastly bally. Not good
form at all you know, Charlie. Quite third rate, don’t you know. Now
then, I’ve given you a friendly lead. Let’s see you stand up like a
man, and say, ‘Mr. Chairman and Gentlemen, unaccustomed as I am
——’ Well, why don’t you go on?”
“Just you shut your face, Grace, and pass me a ham sandwich, and
let’s have the mustard this way. You’d better drop your rotting,
Grace, it really isn’t funny,” said the poor bowler wriggling dismally.
“You’re pretty humorous though,” said his sister cruelly. “If you’ll be
good enough to look as funny as that till I find my kodak. I’ll take a
snapshot of you. You would send up the circulation of the Windsor
Magazine. ‘Eminent cricketer replying to the toast of his health.’
What, ho!”
If a wasp had not settled itself on the dazzling white collar of poor
Charlie’s persecutor and demanded extremely discreet conduct on
the part of Miss Grace whilst three men gallantly but cautiously
arranged its capture and decease, it is possible that the great
bowler’s bad time would have continued longer than it did. Miss
Grace Trentham, having rather severely handled a famous exponent
of the game, turned her attention to one of even greater eminence.
Stoddart’s blindness in omitting to ask Charlie to make the trip to
Australia was trenchantly reviewed.
“If Stoddy don’t take Charlie,” Miss Grace said with weighty
deliberation, “Stoddy’ll be wrong. Charlie’s worth three Jack Hearnes
this season, and Mold and Richardson aren’t in it. ’Fact it’s my ’pinion
that if Charlie had only got a bit more intellect, and hadn’t such a
gift for drinking things, he’d be another Spoff.”
“Go on, Grace, keep at it,” murmured the gentleman in question with
a most pathetic air of resignation. “That’s the fizz. Girls and
champagne as usual. To watch the fluent way they lip it, you’d think
it was only milk. But it gets there just the same. Go on, Grace; let’s
hear what else it’s got to say.”
“Charlie, you’re a coarse person,” said his sister. “You had better take
your hat off to let the sun expurgate your ideas a bit.”
“Grace,” said the little parson, “you’re a regular Jessop when it
comes to hitting. That’s six.”
“Do you believe in dreams, Mr. Dimsdale?” said Miss Grace suddenly.
“Well, I was born in the West country, so I suppose I’m obliged to,”
said I.
“Well, I dreamt last night but one,” said she, “that a wire came from
town to Charlie, saying, ‘Will you complete team? Name
inadvertently omitted. Stoddart.’”
A roar of laughter considerably interfered with Miss Grace’s
narrative.
“Grace, if you keep playing this game,” said the best bowler in
England, fighting for his breath, “I shall die young. Name
inadvertently omitted’s rather good.”
“Certain it has been,” said Miss Grace with deep conviction. “Stoddy
would never be such a blind owl as to leave you out on purpose,
Charlie. I’ve a very high opinion of Stoddy.”
“Stoddy will be pleased,” piped the little parson.
“If that’s meant for sarcasm, Toddles,” said Miss Grace, “you’d better
save it for your fielding. It needs it more than I do.”
“Put her down another six,” said Charlie. “She’s serving all the
bowling alike. She is in a punishing mood. Toddles, if you’ll take my
tip, you’ll go off next over.”
“Don’t take much to flog the stuff you’ve been rolling up this
morning, anyhow,” said Miss Grace truculently. “But I’ve been on the
point of writing to Stoddy once or twice to tell him that he’s
forgotten to invite you, Charlie.”
“Good God, what the, the——!” spluttered the horrified Charlie very
incoherently indeed. The bare possibility of such an unheard of
proceeding half paralysed the poor bowler. His clerical friend, who
had acquired in some mysterious manner a laugh that began in his
boots and rose in Rabelaisian moments as high as his knee-joints,
nearly tumbled off the coach in wrestling with it.
“I would do it if I thought I would,” said Miss Grace stoutly, and the
half-perplexed solemnity of her countenance made three of us howl
with joy; the fourth, however, looked as though he would never
smile again.
“You needn’t tell us that, we know it,” moaned the poor bowler.
“That’s why you’re such a source of comfort to us.”
“Toddles,” said Miss Grace, addressing herself to the Rev. Mr.
Elphinstone, who was engaged in shinning the Optimist on the off-
chance that the Optimist’s mind might be invaded by some much-
needed solemnity, “Toddles, your behaviour is positively low. But
Charlie, now, don’t you think, as Stoddy must have overlooked you,
it would be doing the right thing by him to write and tell him so
before it is too late? No good for him to know it, would it, when Sid
Gregory and Clem Hill and that lot are knocking the cover off the ball
as they did before?”
“Go on, go on,” said the great bowler; “it sounds like sacred music.”
“Well, anyhow,” she continued, “I’m not going to let England lose the
rubber this time, if I can help it. And they will, that’s a cert., if you’re
not there, Charlie, to rattle their timber. They can play everybody
else as easily as they’d play that stuff o’ Toddles’s.”
“Cheek,” said the reverend patentee of “that stuff o’ Toddles’s,”
employing the power of speech with evident difficulty, “awful cheek.”
“Always was you know, Toddles, your bowling,” said Miss Grace
indulgently. “But we won’t go into that now. What ought I to say to
Stoddy when I write him? Would he think it too familiar if I began,
‘My dear Mr. Stoddart,’ or ought it to be ‘Dear Sir’? Don’t quite know
how to start it, don’t you know. You see Stoddy’s not exactly an
ordinary person, don’t you see. The Guv’nor says great men are so
touchy.”
Miss Grace was evidently embarrassed. So were some others. The
little parson’s laughter rumbled from his boots until one wondered
how his small eights could hold so much. As for the unhappy Charlie,
he was so completely demoralised that after saying, “Why don’t
some of you men give her another stone-ginger to keep her quiet?”
he proceeded to fill an immense tumbler with neat gin for that
purpose, under the impression that he was pouring out ginger beer.
When at last things had sorted themselves out a bit, during which
process Miss Grace, the innocent cause of this disorder, regarded us
all with unaffected gravity, the little parson said, with an expression
of really concentrated elfishness: “But you know, you men, there’s a
wonderful amount of truth in what Grace says. If Stoddy really has
forgotten Charlie, and if she reminds him of the fact, she will be
doing a service to her country, won’t she?”
“By Jove, she will,” chorused the Optimist and I.
“Well, if that’s the case, I’m sure I’ll write to Stoddy then,” said
Grace.
And she looked as though she meant to do it too.
The poor bowler had got about as much as he could bear. I think I
never saw a grown man look more completely overborne. He began
doggedly to munch another sandwich, and nearly choked himself by
trying to whistle a jaunty music hall ditty expressive of heart-easing
mirth with his mouth full. When he spoke, his voice was so subdued
and melancholious that, as Miss Grace said, it reminded her of
Toddles reading the marriage service.
“She’ll do it,” he said. “Rather a good joke for me, eh? He’s sure to
show it to McGregor and O’Brien and that lot. They’ll simply die.
Shan’t be able to show my face up at Lord’s for years. Awfully nice
for me, eh?”
“Well,” Miss Grace said, “I hope Stoddy does show it to McGregor
and O’Brien and that lot. They’ll tell him what a fool he’s been to
overlook you, Charlie.”
“She means it,” said I, to console him.
“I should rather think she does,” said he. “If she once gets a giddy
idea into that gaudy feminine head of hers, there’s nothing can shift
it. She’s a downright terror. And, I should like to know what cove it
was that said women had no sense o’ humour. Why they’re that
darned funny they ought to be put in a circus.”
“Awful good sort Grace is though, when you get to know her,” said
the little parson, most caressingly, “and no end of a patriot as well.
She sinks all private and domestic matters when the welfare of her
country is concerned. Shouldn’t be a bit surprised if, when this leaks
out, they don’t get up a shilling testimonial to her in the Daily
Telegraph.”
“’Nother beer for Toddles,” said the recipient of this flattery, “and
Toddles, you can have some gin in it, if you like.”
Mercifully enough for her luckless brother Charlie, Miss Grace here
remembered that she was hostess, and suspended the conversation
to a more convenient season while she ministered to our wants. We
all fell again in earnest to our interrupted meal; but I’m sure that the
best bowler in England was so depressed throughout his entire
being, that he couldn’t possibly have enjoyed his.
There was a delicious sense of out-of-doors and the open air as we
sat up here under the genial sun of summer. The band was playing
now, and the smart mob from the various carriages and the ladies’
tent was parading the bright green lawn prior to the resumption of
the game. The crowd was beginning to re-assemble round the ring.
And here and there we could observe from our exalted situation,
various of the players making a tour of the ground, in their
“blancoed” boots and brilliant blazers, pretty generally accompanied
too by graceful persons in straw hats and white piqué. Some of
these graceful persons happened to be “dressed,” it is true, but their
costumes bid the pen pause, as nothing less than a fashion journal
could describe them.
“I think girls look jolly nice and cool all in white,” said Charlie. “None
of your brown holland for me, thank you. Aren’t fond o’ that ruffly,
crumply sort o’ stuff, are you Toddles?”
“No,” said the cruel Toddles. “And to my unsophisticated mind plain
ribands look more chaste than those staring Zingari ties and things
they crib from their male relations.”
But Miss Grace was far too occupied in attacking her mighty second
sandwich, and insisting on her guests adventuring a third, holding
that great virtues were resident therein, to heed this brilliant
persiflage. Besides, the injustice was too palpable. For I’m certain
that had Grace chosen to wear a potato sack, with a ribbon of the
Zingari black, red and yellow round the neck of it, she would have
made an effect all poetry and sunshine and been a positive delight.
The brown holland was quite plain and simple, without one suspicion
of a flounce; but its wearer had invested it with all the glamours of a
love scene out of Meredith. Hers was a natural genius of beauty for
which she was not all responsible. Without the slightest art or
consideration, it looked out of her eyes. She must have known all
about it, being a girl. Nevertheless she was not in the least uplifted
by it, and would have much preferred to play for Middlesex than to
be the belle of a London season.
When at last the formal luncheon was at an end, and the Earl’s
speech had been duly delivered for the benefit of the Little Clumpton
Advertiser, two persons of light and leading were observed to be
bearing down upon our drag. One was the honourable and reverend
parent of Miss Grace; the other was the Earl himself. It was good to
notice the celerity with which our hostess slipped the empty
champagne bottles, bearing their tell-tale labels, back into the
hamper at the first approach of these dignitaries.
“Mum’s the word, you know,” said she, “if the Guv wants to know
what we’ve had to drink. His natural benevolence sometimes leads
him to ask lots o’ questions that he oughtn’t to.”
As soon as the new comers halted immediately beneath us, Miss
Grace greeted them in the hearty fashion that was her wont.
“Hullo, father! had a good lunch? Hullo, Dicky! Got your speech off
all comfy, or did you break down in the middle, as you usually do?”
“A bit nearer the end this time,” said the Earl.
“Anyhow,” said Miss Grace, “I hope you didn’t shove in your usual
reference to Alfred Mynn and Fuller Pilch and that crowd. I think
everybody’s getting about sick of ’em. What with the Old Man and
Ranji and Andrew Lang, they’re getting stale. You take my advice,
Dicky, and give ’em a rest. Everybody’ll be so grateful, and as it’ll
make your peroration shorter by about ten minutes, you can bet that
their gratitude will be pretty genuine.”
“Clean out of the ground again,” cried England’s best bowler in great
delight. “’Nother six. She keeps on lifting ’em. Charlie Thornton isn’t
in it. Dick, you take my advice, and clear out o’ this while you’re
well.”
“What have I done to deserve this?” said the poor Earl appealingly.
“’Feel like it,” said Miss Grace. “And so would you, Dicky, had you
been sitting up here all the jolly morning putting down Little
Clumpton’s runs, watching Halliday batting like an angel, and
Toddles dropping him, and ordinary club men smacking Charlie’s
best for fours. 165 for one; isn’t it disgraceful? However, you had
better come up here, Dicky, and I’ll give you an apple to keep you
good.”
“Can’t, much as I regret it,” said the Earl. “’Got my social duties to
attend to.”
“A useful yarn,” said Miss Grace.
“And, Laura,” said the deep voice of Miss Grace’s parent, “I should
like you to come down and attend to yours. There’s all the county
here, and you’ve not even acknowledged them yet.”
“’Haven’t seen one of ’em except in the distance,” said his ingenuous
daughter.
“You are scarcely likely to, if you carefully keep out of their way,”
said the Rector.
“Seems to be a lot o’ truth in that,” said Miss Grace, wagging her
head very thoughtfully. “Funny I didn’t think of that before. But I tell
you what, pater: if they ask you where I am, tell ’em I’ve got an old
frock on, and that I’m afraid to face the music. It’ll please ’em
awfully, and it won’t hurt me. See!”
By the anxious expression on the old gentleman’s face it was evident
that this proposal was not altogether in accordance with his ideas.
He was deeply desirous of bringing his daughter round to his own
point of view, yet didn’t know how. It was clearly a case for a
mamma to exercise her prerogative, as a mere father is not made of
stern enough stuff to thwart a daughter in the enjoyment of her own
way. Miss Grace, however, was by no means insensible to her
parent’s deeply solicitous look.
“All right, father, I’ll come,” she said. Then, turning round to us,
added in an apologetic undertone, “My old guv’nor’s such an awful
good sort, don’t you see, that when he looks like that, I can’t resist
him. But I sha’n’t stop long. Can’t stand a set o’ women inquiring
whether I take any interest in cricket, and can I tell ’em what a
maiden is, and what are those funny things that some o’ the men
have got strapped on their legs? I shall cut early. And oh! I say,
Cheery, will you do the scoring while I’m gone? ’Know how to take
the analysis, don’t you? In red ink, mind. Here you are. Oh! and if
you observe any of those public school cubs prowling round, don’t
let ’em come up. Keep ’em down with your boot. Bye, bye; back
soon!”
Miss Grace then departed to do the right thing by her friends, just as
the bell rang for the clearance of the ground. And as she walked,
with the Earl on one side of her and her parent on the other, she
looked not unlike a deserter being reluctantly led back in custody to
her regiment.
 CHAPTER IX
Record Breaking
“POOR old Grace!” said the little parson. “Quite a martyr to public
duty, isn’t she? I didn’t think she’d go.”
“And she wouldn’t, that’s a moral,” said her brother, “had it been
anybody but the Guv. Her consideration for the Guv is something
beautiful. ’Wish she’d extend it to some other members of her
family.”
“There’s none of ’em can grumble,” said the little parson warmly.
“She’s a mother to the lot. ’Gives you milk gruel when you’re sick.
’Won’t have you stay out late. ’Sends you in strict training before the
Gentlemen and Players. ’Always up at Lords to give you the privilege
of her advice. ’Coaches the lot of you like a pro. ’Dots your I’s and
crosses your T’s for you, and puts your eyes and limbs together
generally. Surely it isn’t reasonable to expect more from a sister; but
some men want so thundering much. Tell you what, my boy, if
there’d been no Grace to restrict your spiritual needs and minister to
your temporal, Cambridge hadn’t cut up Oxford as they did, and
Middlesex hadn’t been champion county. Grace is a trump!”
The little parson’s heat was such that he was compelled to wipe his
forehead.
“Oh, I don’t deny that Grace has her points,” said that young
person’s brother.
“And no end of a fine girl is Grace,” said the little parson, quite at the
mercy of his theme. “Real A 1, and looks it. And there’s nobody to
deny it either.”
“’Never could see it myself,” drawled Charlie, who in his fraternal
capacity was of course at no pains to conceal his boredom. “’Can’t
see where her looks come in at all.”
“If she were some other fellow’s sister, it’s likely that you might,”
said I.
Perhaps it was that my tone conveyed more than I was aware of, for
the great bowler looked at me with a shrewdly humorous
countenance that rather reminded me of Robert Abel’s.
“Hullo, Toddles!” he observed. “What price that? ’Nother victim. I’m
getting to recognise the symptoms straight away. But, Dimsdale, you
be advised. The Rectory positively reeks of slaughtered innocence.
Two refused last week. Now, don’t you come and play the goat.”
“Wonder who it will be in the end?” asked the poor dear Optimist to
cover my retreat. But his own effort was a perfect masterpiece of
self-repression.
“Perhaps the noble Earl,” said the little parson. “He’s been right over
his ears this two years. Poor old Dick!”
“No blooming fear!” said Miss Grace’s brother, with a profound
conviction that both delighted and depressed the poor old Optimist
and the miserable me. “Dick’s a rank outsider. ’Hasn’t a thousand-to-
one chance. Last time he tried it on he sank so low as to tell her
what his income was. ‘Now, look here, Dick,’ said she, ‘I don’t care a
straw about your income; what’s your batting average?’ Fact! Told it
to the ’Varsity, and they put it in The Granta. And the joke is, that
Dick is the most horrible muff you ever saw. ’Couldn’t get a run to
save his life. Well, he sent for Attewell and Brockwell to coach him
all the spring. But he’s not yet at the top of the first-class averages.”
“Well, who will it be?” I asked recklessly.
“Ask another,” said Charlie, “for I’m hanged if I know. Ranji in his
best year might have had a look in, and I think she’d take the Old
Man even now. Jacker, and Stoddy, and Archie McLaren, and that
crush, all just miss it.”
“All just miss it?” I said weakly.