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OU'RE sure you've finished both your sermons for Sunday, John?"

"Quite sure, Hannah," replied the vicar meekly.

"And there is nothing about cricket in them?" in- quired Miss Lipscombe, the lines at the corners of her mouth deepening.

"Nothing at all, Hannah," he replied with the air of a child being put through its catechism.

"Then I think you may go," she said, and the vicar passed down the drive, overtaking Smith at the gate. The vicar's first thought that morning had been the weather and its probable effect upon the wicket. He had thought of little else than cricket for the past week, and it was with a sigh of content that he had seen, from his bedroom window, the sun climbing a cloudless sky. As they walked towards the cricket-field, Smith was acutely conscious of his newly-acquired "Gents' Super- fine Unshrinkable Flans," as his trousers had been officially labelled. He had carefully preserved the ticket in his pocket-book; it was obviously a document for the family muniment-chest.

He was engaged in speculating as to where reach-me- down outfitters recruited their models of British man- hood, when a turn in the road brought them in sight of the field of play. Already it was deeply fringed with spectators. The vicar quickened his steps, as if eager 188