the treasurer of the cricket-ground come to book two of his eighteen to
play against the All-England Eleven next month. "As for you, my worthy
sir (turning to Edward), I shall just put you down without ceremony. But
I must ask leave to book Captain Dodd. Mrs. Dodd, I come at the universal
desire of the club; they say it is sure to be a dull match without
Captain Dodd. Besides, he is a capital player."

"Mamma, don't you be caught by his chaff," said Edward, quietly. "Papa is
no player at all. Anything more unlike cricket than his way of making
runs!"

"But he makes them, old fellow; now you and I, at Lord's the other day,
played in first-rate form, left shoulder well up, and achieved--with
neatness, precision, dexterity, and despatch--the British duck's-egg.

_"Misericorde!_ What is that?" inquired Mrs. Dodd.

Why, a round O," said the other Oxonian, coming to his friend's aid.

"And what is that, pray?"

Alfred told her "the round O," which had yielded to "the duck's egg," and
was becoming obsolete, meant the cypher set by the scorer against a
player's name who is out without making a run.

"I see," sighed Mrs. Dodd. "The jargon of the day penetrates to your very
sports and games. And why British?"

"Oh, 'British' is redundant: thrown in by the universities."