the Gunner was all that could be taken out of the penultimate over,
and Kippy at the pergola end faced Mark Styles, the postman, to take
the first ball of the last over. Two singles were run, and then Kippy
placed one nicely into the herbaceous border for four. The next one
nearly got him, and then, with the seven o'clock delivery, as it
were, the postman tossed up a half-volley on the leg side. Forgotten
were the rules, the windows and all else. Kippy jumped out and, with
every muscle he could bring into action, hit it straight through
the plate-glass panel of the billiard-room door. For five petrified
seconds we gazed at the wreckage, and then the door opened and the
Colonel walked briskly into the garden. Anything else--a bomb or
an earthquake--might merely have created curiosity, but this was
different.

Quite unostentatiously I vacated my position at fine leg and merged
myself with the slips, who, together with point and cover, were
bearing a course towards the labyrinthine ways of the kitchen-garden.
After vainly searching for an imaginary ball and finding that we were
not actually attacked from the rear, we ventured at length to return.

Kippy and the Colonel were conversing on the centre of the well-worn
pitch. The Colonel was speaking.

"... Lose ten runs and the match! I never heard such infernal
nonsense. That shot was worth six runs on any ground. I shall insist
on revising the rules."

At the same time I noticed that Kippy was holding a red-and-white box,
and the Colonel was with difficulty thrusting something through the
inadequate slit.