The day of the match had now arrived, and that was such an important affair, being for the benefit of the widow and five young children of the late Joe McPherson, as honest a player as ever handled the ball when the referee wasn't looking, that it will be necessary to supply some sort of an account of this historic function.
It was a crowded and glorious day for Mary and Philip; and it really started pretty soon after breakfast, when those famous men, namely and to wit, Toddles and W. W., rang the bell of Granny's lodgings and were ushered into the front sitting-room on the first floor. At the moment of their arrival Mary was trying over on the piano, which had several of its notes intact, although none of them in tune, the latest manifestation of the genius of Mr. Rubens.
"Please, don't let us interrupt you," said W. W., laying a suspicious-looking brown paper parcel on the table.
Mary, however, took this for mere natural politeness.
"Oh, you've brought them, I see. Do let me look."
Now what was it, do you suppose, that she wanted to look at? Wait, if you please, until W. W. has cut the string of the parcel with a pocketknife that was given him by his Aunt Marian, contrary to the advice
