" Kippy leant forward confidentially, "An' them Serbian boxes 'as
got ter be filled some'ow." It was an irresistible argument, and Jim
Butcher continued his innings under slightly restricted conditions.
At 6.50, with ten minutes to play, the Convalescents, who had shown
great form, required only twelve runs to win the match. Kippy and
Gunner Toady shared the batting. A pretty glance to leg for two by
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.
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