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“It was a four-handed match between two rather good-looking boys who wore red and green ribbons on their straws–[those were the Denhamby colours]–and two big London fellows. The schoolboys won the toss, and the fair one served first. He put in a very hot service just over the net, which broke sharp as it fell, and bothered the Londoners completely. The dark hand-in played close up to the net, and was very neat in the way he picked up balls and smashed them over.”

Harry paused and looked doubtfully at me for a moment, and then went on.

“The schoolboys pulled off the first three games, and then the Londoners scored a game, owing to the wind. A large crowd collected to see the match, and shouts of `Well put over!’ greeted the schoolboys on every hand. The Londoners didn’t score another game in the first set, and scored nothing in the second.

“The crowd became thicker and thicker every moment. In the last game the fair schoolboy spun a ball into the far left-hand corner, which the Londoner could not reach, and the match ended in a glorious victory for the two schoolboys, who, apparently unaware of the cheers of the crowd, walked home arm-in-arm as if nothing had happened.

“On their way they met a runaway horse, and loud cries of `Take care!’ `Get out of the way!’ met them on all sides. A nursemaid was wheeling a child across the road at that moment, and quick as thought the fair boy sprang at the horse and brought him to a standstill just in time. The crowd seeing it, rushed with a great cheer to the young hero, but he seeing it, took his friend’s arm and walked on as if nothing had happened.

“`What are you so pale for?’ asked his friend.

“`Oh, nothing very much. I have broken my arm; but it really doesn’t matter much.’

“While he spoke he fainted, and if it had not been for his friend, might have fallen.

“Meanwhile the baby, left to herself in the perambulator in the middle of the road, began to cry, which attracted the notice of Vixen, who, seeing she was a nice child, went and lifted her out of her perambulator, and put her in her cradle on her organ while nobody was looking, and took her to her home.”

“`Whose home?’ I asked.

Harry did not condescend to notice this interruption. He may have guessed I was jealous. All that about the heroic fair boy had been taking an unfair advantage of me, and I think he knew it. For I was of a dark complexion! His narrative went on to describe a fight in the organ-grinder’s lodgings, and a burglary, followed by a fire at the residence of the parents of the lost child. As a matter of course, the fair boy with his broken arm turned up on the fire-engine, and brought most of the family down the escape with his sound arm. Then by a sudden transition the scene changed back to the organ-grinder’s “cottage,” on the ground floor of which in another cradle slept another infant, a boy, fair, of course, and beautifully made, showing great promise of physical force and heroism of disposition.

“He was older than Alicia, and could speak a little. There was no one in the room, and as he sat up in his cradle he felt very sad. Presently two young organ-grinders came into the room. One was dark and vicious, the other was fair [of course] and had a pleasant expression. They took no notice of the baby, but sat and smoked and asked riddles of one another. The fair one [of course!] was far the cleverer of the two, and caused much laughter by his wit.

“`Can you tell me,’ said he, in a pleasant silvery voice very unlike an organ-grinder, `why an author is a queer animal?’