e 'im again," added Ellen Mary.

Stott stood upright. In his socks, he looked noticeably shorter than his
wife. "I suppose not," he said, and gave a deep sigh of relief. "Well,
thank Gawd for that, anyway."

Ellen Mary drew her lips together. For some dim, unrealised reason, she
wished her husband to leave the cottage with a feeling of goodwill
towards the child, but she saw that her wish was little likely to be
fulfilled.

"Well, good-night, George," she said, after a few seconds of silence,
and she added pathetically, as she turned at the foot of the stairs:
"Don't wish 'im no harm."

"I won't," was all the assurance she received.

When she had gone, and the door was closed behind her, Stott padded
silently to the window and looked out. A young moon was dipping into a
bank of cloud, and against the feeble brightness he could see an
uncertain outline of bare trees. He pulled the curtain across the
window, and turned back to the warm cheerfulness of the room.

"Shan't never see 'im again," he murmured, "thank Gawd!" He undressed
quietly, blew out the lamp and got between the sheets of his improvised
bed. For some minutes he stared at the leaping shadows on the ceiling.
He was wondering why he had ever been afraid of the child. "After all,
'e's only a blarsted freak," was the last thought in his mind before he
fell asleep.

And with that pronouncement Stott passes out of the history of the
Hampdenshire Wonder. He was in many ways an exceptional man, and his
name will always be associated with the splendid successes of
Hampdenshire cricket, both before and after the accident that destroyed
his career as a bowler. He was not spoiled by his triumphs: those two
years of celebrity never made Stott conceited, and there are undoubtedly
many traits in his character which call for our admiration. He is still
in his prime, an active agent in finding talent for his county, and in
developing that talent when found. Hampdenshire has never come into the
field with weak bowling, and all the credit belongs to Ginger Stott.

One sees that he was not able to appreciate the wonderful gifts of his
own son, but Stott was an ignorant man, and men of intellectual
attainment failed even as Stott failed in this respect. Ginger Stott was
a success in his own walk of life, and that fact should command our
admiration. It is not for us to judge whether his attainments were more
or less noble than the attainments of his son.

III

One