“She’d seen me on land, silly.  Well, we went on talking, and at last she said, ‘Will you play us at mixed cricket on Saturday?’ And a big wave came along and went inside me just as I was saying yes.”

“Hooray!  Myra, your health.”

“We’re only six, though,” added Archie.  “Didn’t you swim up against anybody else who looked like a cricketer and might play for us?”

“But we can easily pick up five people by Saturday,” said Myra confidently.  “And oh, I do hope we’re in form; we haven’t played for years.”

. . . . . . .

We lost the toss, and Myra led her team out on to the field.  The last five places in the eleven had been filled with care:  a preparatory school-boy and his little sister (found by Dahlia on the beach), Miss Debenham (found by Simpson on the road with a punctured bicycle), Mrs Oakley (found by Archie at the station and re-discovered by Myra in the Channel), and Sarah, a jolly girl of sixteen (found by me and Thomas in the tobacconist’s, where she was buying The Sportsman).

“Where would you all like to field?” asked the captain.

“Let’s stand round in groups, just at the start, and then see where we’re wanted.  Who’s going to bowl?”

“Me and Samuel.  I wonder if I dare bowl over-hand.”

“I’m going to,” said Simpson.

“You can’t, not with your left hand.”

“Why not?  Hirst does.”

“Then I shan’t field point,” said Thomas with decision.

However, as it happened, it was short leg who received the first two balls, beautiful swerving wides, while the next two were well caught and returned by third man.  Simpson’s range being thus established, he made a determined attack on the over proper with lobs, and managed to wipe off half of it.  Encouraged by this, he returned with such success to overhand that the very next ball got into the analysis, the batsman reaching out and hitting it over the hedge for six.  Two more range-finders followed before Simpson scored another dot with a sneak; and then, at what should have been the last ball, a tragedy occurred.

“Wide,” said the umpire.

“But—­but I was b-bowling underhand,” stammered Simpson.

“Now you’ve nothing to fall back on,” I pointed out.

Simpson considered the new situation.  “Then you fellows can’t mind if I go on with overhand,” he said joyfully, and he played his twelfth.

It was the batsman’s own fault.  Like a true gentleman he went after the ball, caught it up near point, and hit it hard in the direction of cover.  Sarah shot up a hand unconcernedly.

“One for six,” said Simpson, and went over to Miss Debenham to explain how he did it.

“He must come off,” said Archie.  “We have a reputation to keep up.  It’s his left hand, of course, but we can’t go round to all the spectators and explain that he can really bowl quite decent long hops with his right.”