“What on earth—?” asked Daddy.

 

“Laddie practising cricket,” said the Lady, with the curious clairvoyance¹ of motherhood.  “He gets out of bed to bowl.  I do wish you would go up and speak seriously to him about it, for it takes quite an hour off his rest.”

 

Daddy departed upon his mission intending to be gruff, and my word, he can be quite gruff when he likes!  When he reached the top of the stairs, however, and heard the noise still continue, he walked softly down the landing and peeped in through the half-opened door.

 

The room was dark save for a night-light.  In the dim glimmer² he saw a little white-clad figure, slight and supple³, taking short steps and swinging its arm in the middle of the room.

 

“Halloa!” said Daddy.

 

The white-clad figure turned and ran forward to him.

 

“Oh, Daddy, how jolly of you to come up!”

 

Daddy felt that gruffness was not quite so easy as it had seemed.

 

“Look here!  You get into bed!” he said, with the best imitation he could manage.

 

“Yes, Daddy.  But before I go, how is this?”  He sprang forward and the arm swung round again in a swift and graceful⁴ gesture.

 

p. 218Daddy was a moth-eaten cricketer of sorts, and he took it in with a critical eye.

 

“Good, Laddie.  I like a high action.  That’s the real Spofforth swing.”

 

“Oh, Daddy, come and talk about cricket!”  He was pulled on the side of the bed, and the white figure dived between the sheets.

 

“Yes; tell us about cwicket!” came a cooing voice from the corner.  Dimples was sitting up in his cot.

 

“You naughty boy!  I thought one of you was asleep, anyhow.  I mustn’t stay.  I keep you awake.”

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