y ground and under ordinary
conditions, and particularly so if that umpire in the Sussex and
Somerset match the other day were officiating. But he is not, and
this is a dream. What happens is that the Kent captain, instead of
returning to the Pavilion, stops and talks to the other captain and
then he leaves the pitch and begins to walk towards the ring. When he
reaches the ring, some way from me, he begins to ask loudly, 'Is there
a Kent man here who can play at all and would help us out?' I can
hear him at first only faintly; then, as he gets closer, I hear more
clearly, 'Is there a Kent man here who can play at all and would help
us out?' My heart beats faster and faster and I am nearly suffocated
with suspense as he approaches, because I am a Kent man who can bat
a bit, and to play for my county has always been my desire, and I am
afraid that someone else will volunteer before the captain reaches me.

"You see now why the match has to be played so far away from home. If
it were Kent v. Middlesex at Lord's, for example, there would be loads
of Kentish men on the ground. But not so many up in the North.

"I always wonder why the captain does not begin in the Pavilion, but
he does not. He comes straight to the ring. Every moment he is drawing
nearer and no one has offered himself; and then at last he gets to me
and I stand up and say that Kent is my county and I can play a bit and
would like to help. He hastens to accept my offer, and I take his bat
and pads and gloves and go to the pitch, amid the cheers of the crowd.

"At the wicket I am received with hearty greetings by the rival
captain (this is a dream, remember), and I take middle. Then I look
round the field with perfect composure, as I have always seen the
best batsmen do, and have always wanted to do myself. I am the coolest
thing there.

"The situation is electrical. Six runs are needed and I am the last
man. The bowler against me is a demon and I am dead out of practice
and by no means fond of being hit on the body. He begins his run
towards the wicket, and the ball leaves his terrible long swinging
arm and comes towards me like a shell. I raise my bat, get it on the
half-volley right in the middle, hit it clean over the Pavilion for
six, and the match is won.

"That is my favourite dream."

"No wonder," we said.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Mother_. "GEORGE WERE ALWAYS A TURRIBLE ONE TO CLEAN
'ISSELF; BUT THE ARMY DO S