For a time matters proceeded uneventfully.  Then, at the fall of the fourth wicket, the game suddenly developed, Jim Butcher, batting at the pergola end, giving us an exhibition of his famous scoop shot, which landed full pitch through the drawing-room window.  It was a catastrophe of such dimensions that even the boldest spirit quailed before it, and the Colonel’s butler, batting at the other end, immediately dissociated himself from the proceedings and bolted from the field.

Kippy, as befitted a warrior of parts, was the first to recover.

“’Ere,” he exclaimed, “we carn’t ’ave this; wot do you think the Colonel will say?”

I do not suppose there was anyone who had not thought of it.

“We got to ’ave fresh rules,” Kippy continued.  “Anyone breaking a winder ’as to retire, mend the winder, and ’is side loses ten runs.”  Only a super mind could in the time have framed a punishment so convincingly deterrent.

The scoop shot from the pergola end was ruled out in a sentence, and we were treated to a masterly and Jessopian demonstration of how to get an off ball past square-leg.

But no completely efficient form of organisation can be encompassed in an hour, nor can man legislate for the unknown factor.

In this case Kippy was not aware that, on the far side of the shrubbery, against an ancient sun-bathed wall, stood the greenhouse which sheltered the Colonel’s prize grapes.  And so Jim Butcher, playing this time from the rockery end, brought off the double event and caused another new clause to be added to the local rules.  With thirty-seven to his credit and still undefeated he was making history in the village, though it must be admitted that no one was ever less anxious to retain the post of honour, and when the gardener laid out the damaged fruit nothing short of Kippy’s appeal would have persuaded him to continue his innings.

“Wot, retire jest when you’re gettin’ popler an’ can’t do no more ‘arm an’ I’ve sent off the ’ole brigade of scouts ter spread the noos, ‘Jessop thirty, not out, an’ ‘arf the Colonel’s winders napooed.’  Wy, the ‘ole blinkin’ county will be ‘ere as soon as they know wot’s goin’ on.”  Kippy leant forward confidentially, “An’ them Serbian boxes ’as got ter be filled some’ow.”  It was an irresistible argument, and Jim Butcher continued his innings under slightly restricted conditions.

At 6.50, with ten minutes to play, the Convalescents, who had shown great form, required only twelve runs to win the match.  Kippy and Gunner Toady shared the batting.  A pretty glance to leg for two by the Gunner was all that could be taken out of the penultimate over, and Kippy at the pergola end faced Mark Styles, the postman, to take the first ball of the last over.  Two singles were run, and then Kippy placed one nicely into the herbaceous border for four.  The next one nearly got him, and then, with the seven o’clock delivery, as it were, the postman tossed up a half-volley