We lost three wickets for only ten runs, and then I went in.  It was one of my rare cricket days.  I felt, I knew, that I should make runs—­not much more than twenty, of course, but then twenty is a big score for Littleborough.  And I felt like twenty at least.

Rankin was fielding at deep long-on, close to the tent; but they had no one at square leg, which is my special direction on my twenty days.  Presently the bowler offered me a full pitch on the leg side.  I timed it successfully, and had no doubt of having added four to my score, when, to my astonishment, I saw a fieldsman running from the direction of the hedge.  The next moment he had brought off a very creditable catch.

It did not dawn on me at first that this was their eleventh man, arrived at that moment.  When it did, I could not help laughing to think that he should imagine he could rush in like that while his substitute was still fielding.  Then I heard the bowler appeal to the umpire, and to my horror I heard the umpire (their umpire) say “Out.”

“But they can’t have twelve men fielding,” I cried.  “The substitute is still there.”

“You’re out, Sir,” said the umpire haughtily.  “The substitoot has already retired.  ’E’s standing there watching the game with ’is ’ands in ’is pockets.”

* * * * *

A self-starter.

    “Born of an Iris moter and a Scots father, in Chicago, U.S.A., Mr.
    ——­’s ability for the stage developed very early.”—­New Zealand
    Paper.

* * * * *

“Within the square of spectators were paraded about two thousand Girl Guides.  It delighted the eye to see the companies march with precision and smartness, while the ear was charmed and the marital spirit stirred by the music of the pipes and drums.”—­Scotch Paper.

So that’s the idea.

* * * * *

    “Soon we could make out the Sultan’s Palace, from which the tired
    ‘Hunter of the East’ was now unwinding his ‘nose of light.’”—­ _——­
    Magazine._

For further details of this remarkable organ see LEAR’S “Dong with the Luminous Nose.”

* * * * *

Philosophers.

We are all different, and often our differences are of the widest.  Some men can be knocked prostrate by the most trifling disappointment, while others can extract comfort or even positive benefit from what looks like complete disaster—­such as the Cambridge youth I met last week, raving about TURNER’S “Fighting Temeraire.”

“But I didn’t know you were interested in pictures,” I said.

“Oh, yes, I’ve always been, in a way,” he replied; “but it wasn’t till the rain ruined the first day of the Varsity match that I ever had a real chance to get to the National Gallery, and when it came down like blazes again on Tuesday I went back there.  Did you ever see such painting?  And the pathos of it too!  And then that frosty morning scene in the same room!  Why, Turner was too wonderful.”