"we're all rabbits, and old Romney is the only man on the side who could hit a football." He had himself been in, and been bowled second ball.
The last man was now at the wickets, and it was getting frightfully exciting, for father had made forty-eight. The whole score was only ninety-three. Everybody hoped that the last man would stop in long enough to let father make his fifty—especially myself.
I was in such a state of suspense that I dug quite a trench with my parasol. I felt as if I were going to faint.
The other bowler, not Mr. Simpson, was bowling. Father was batting, and he had the whole six balls to make his two runs off.
This bowler had not taken any wickets so far, and I could see that he meant to get father, which would be better than bowling any number of the rabbits; as the young man called them. And father, knowing that he was near his fifty, but not knowing quite how near, was playing very carefully. So it was not till the fifth ball of the over that he managed to make anything, and then it was only one. So now he had made forty-nine. And then that horrid, beastly idiot of a last man went and spooned up the easiest catch, and Sir Edward Cave, of all men, caught it.
I went into a deserted corner and bellowed.
"SIR EDWARD CAVE, OF ALL MEN, CAUGHT IT."
Oh, but it was all right after all, because father said that forty-nine not out against one of the best bowlers in England was enough for his simple needs, and that, so far as our bargain was concerned, it should count as fifty.
So I am going to town for the winter, and Mr. Simpson has got his ten-pound note, and will marry Saunders, I suppose, if he hurries and manages it before the football season comes; and father is as pleased as possible with his forty-nine, because he says it restores his faith in himself and relieves him of a haunting fear that he was becoming a veteran and the entire servants' hall is moaning with envy at Saunders's blue chiffon hat with pink roses.
