Clarence, on this sultry August afternoon, was tensely occupied
tracking the family cat across the dining-room carpet by its
foot-prints. Glancing up for a moment, he caught sight of the other
members of the family.

"England, my England!" he moaned.

It was indeed a sight to extract tears of blood from any Boy Scout. The
table had been moved back against the wall, and in the cleared space
Mr. Chugwater, whose duty it was to have set an example to his
children, was playing diabolo. Beside him, engrossed in cup-and-ball,
was his wife. Reggie Chugwater, the eldest son, the heir, the hope of
the house, was reading the cricket news in an early edition of the
evening paper. Horace, his brother, was playing pop-in-taw with his
sister Grace and Grace's _fiance_, Ralph Peabody. Alice, the other
Miss Chugwater, was mending a Badminton racquet.

Not a single member of that family was practising with the rifle, or
drilling, or learning to make bandages.

Clarence groaned.

"If you can't play without snorting like that, my boy," said Mr.
Chugwater, a little irritably, "you must find some other game. You made
me jump just as I was going to beat my record."

"Talking of records," said Reggie, "Fry's on his way to his eighth
successive century. If he goes on like this, Lancashire will win the
championship."