In the next over nothing much happened, except that Miss Debenham missed a sitter.  Subsequently Simpson caught her eye from another part of the field, and explained telegraphically to her how she should have drawn her hands in to receive the ball.  The third over was entrusted to Sarah.

“So far,” said Dahlia, half an hour later, “the Rabbits have not shone.  Sarah is doing it all.”

“Hang it, Dahlia, Thomas and I discovered the child.  Give the credit where it is due.”

“Well, why don’t you put my Bobby on, then?  Boys are allowed to play right-handed, you know.”

So Bobby went on, and with Sarah’s help finished off the innings.

“Jolly good rot,” he said to Simpson, “you’re having to bowl left-handed.”

“My dear Robert,” I said, “Mr Simpson is a natural base-ball pitcher, he has an acquired swerve at bandy, and he is a lepidopterist of considerable charm.  But he can’t bowl with either hand.”

“Coo!” said Bobby.

The allies came out even more strongly when we went in to bat.  I was the only Rabbit who made ten, and my whole innings was played in an atmosphere of suspicion very trying to a sensitive man.  Mrs Oakley was in when I took guard, and I played out the over with great care, being morally bowled by every ball.  At the end of it a horrible thought occurred to me:  I had been batting right-handed!  Naturally I changed round for my next ball. (Movements of surprise.)

“Hallo,” said the wicket-keeper, “I thought you were left-handed; why aren’t you playing right?”

“No, I’m really right-handed,” I said.  “I played that way by mistake just now.  Sorry.”

He grunted sceptically, and the bowler came up to have things explained to her.  The next ball I hit left-handed for six. (Loud Mutters.)

“Is he really right-handed?” the bowler asked Mrs Oakley.

“I don’t know,” she said, “I’ve never seen him before.” (Sensation.)

“I think, if you don’t mind, we’d rather you played right-handed.”

“Certainly.”  The next ball was a full pitch, and I took a right-handed six.  There was an awful hush.  I looked round at the field and prepared to run for it.  I felt that they suspected me of all the undiscovered crimes of the year.

“Look here,” I said, nearly crying, “I’ll play any way you like—­sideways, or upside down, or hanging on to the branch of a tree, or—­”

The atmosphere was too much for me.  I trod on my wickets, burst into tears, and bolted to the tent.

. . . . . . .

“Well,” said Dahlia, “we won.”

“Yes,” we all agreed, “we won.”

“Even if we didn’t do much of it ourselves,” Simpson pointed out, “we had jolly good fun.”

“We always have that,” said Myra.

THE HOUSE-WARMING

I.—­WORK FOR ALL

“Well,” said Dahlia, “what do you think of it?”